


The Triple Bluff

by SarahKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Pink, Angst, Bullying, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Sherlock & Lestrade friendship, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9469451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahKnight/pseuds/SarahKnight
Summary: Sherlock annoys his landlord at Montague street, grows to hate Donovan and gets into trouble a lot on a kidnapping case involving a woman who bullied him as a child.The events leading up to A Study In Pink. A case fic that answers questions from the first episode such as why Sherlock had to leave Montague Street and find a new flatmate, why he and Lestrade both quit smoking but didn't know the other had, why there's so much animosity between Sherlock and Donovan, and why Sherlock hates traveling in a police car.





	1. Chapter 1

-Bang Bang Bang-

Three loud knocks, evenly paced. Urgent, or angry, then. And extremely inconvenient. Blast this infernal condominium, there were so many people everywhere. Sherlock ignored the door and continued to sit crossed legged on the bed, plucking the strings of the violin on his lap. Somewhere in his brain was a clue that he hadn't fully figured out yet. There had to be. Something that would lead him to...

"Mr. Holmes?" the muffled voice came through the bedroom door.

Landlord. Angry then. Reason? Too many possibilities to narrow down without more data. Something recently discovered or disclosed, obviously. He continued to pluck the violin strings: plink plink plink.

-BANG BANG BANG-

"Mr. Holmes!"

Something that he deems to be important. Likelihood of it actually being important: low. Likelihood of being left in peace if ignored: lower.

Sherlock sighed, rose, and answered the door. The old landlord's hand was poised ready to bang the door again with the base of his fist.

"Mr. Holmes..."

"Mr. Phillips," Sherlock cut him off. "Is my playing bothering you?"

"I... What?"

"Something is bothering you," Sherlock said, feigning patience. "Is it my playing?"

He tapped the violin to draw attention to the illustrative instrument. Mr. Phillips looked at it and then back at his tenant, puzzled. "Oh no... that's not it... it's..."

"Of course not," Sherlock said, as if suddenly realising something. "The volume is far too low to disturb a person of your limited hearing range."

"How did you...?" the old man spluttered.

"Excellent, I shall continue. Good bye."

Sherlock shut the door in the landlord's face, turned around sharply and paced the small room, plucking and thinking, plucking and thinking. He thought back to this morning. It had all started, as it often did, with a text from Lestrade...

-BANG BANG BANG-

"Mr. Phillips!" Sherlock shouted sternly, "What now?"

The door opened, and Sherlock turned away from it sullenly to look out of the window, plucking a discordant range of notes in defiance of any conventional timing.

The landlord was angrier now, and more determined. "I've had a complaint," he stuttered to his tenant's back. "Several, actually. About the state of the kitchen. What is that equipment? I've half a mind to call the police."

Ah, that. "It's an experiment, not a meth lab," he said irritably.

-plink plink plink-

"It's not a lab at all, Mr. Holmes, it's a shared kitchen. The other tenants are worried they're going to poison themselves having a cup of tea."

"If it's shared, then why am I not to use it?"

-plink plink plinkety plink-

"By all means use it. For cooking, washing up, making a cup of tea. But no science equipment, no chemicals and certainly no smoke. Emily from room 2 has asthma."

-plink plunk-

"I don't recall such a detail being specified in the rent agreement."

"It's common sense Mr. Holmes!"

"Hmmm."

-plink plink plink-

The landlord tutted and readjusted his glasses. "Well?"

Sherlock finally turned to face him. "Yes, yes, I'll get rid of it. I'll tell Mr. and Mrs. Jules that I was unable to solve the case of their son's disappearance, because my neighbours' need for tea and biscuits was a far more pressing priority. Now kindly shut up and go away, I need to THINK."

He shut the door in the Phillips' face again and locked it, before the idiot could think of a retort.

Honestly! Where was he supposed to conduct his experiments? In his room? There was barely enough room for a bed. Not for the first time, he reflected that London's rental rates were diabolical. In some parts of the country he could have a whole house to himself for the cost of his room in Phillips' condominium on Montague st. Unfortunately the most expensive place in the country was also the richest source of crimes and puzzles. He could not contemplate living anywhere else and therefore he was forced to tolerate...

Dammit, and now, thanks to his bloody toleration, he was distracted by irrelevant trains of thought. It was as if stupidity was catching.

Focus, focus, focus.

He dropped the violin onto the bed, wrapped the duvet around himself and lit a cigarette, pushing up the window and leaning out just far enough onto the balcony to avoid the smoke drifting into the hallway.

He inhaled calmly, in and out, in and out. Focused.

Right. There was a pertinent clue somewhere in his mind. He had noticed everything, but evidently he had not deduced everything. Not yet, otherwise young Leo Jules would be safe at home and the abductor in custody.

Now, what was he missing? He cast his mind back to that morning for the fourth time.

It had started with a text from Lestrade, a location and a request. Bored out of his mind, Sherlock had been out the door and into a taxi within minutes.

The crime scene was in an upper class area with extremely expensive detached houses and likely a pleasant lack of meddling landlords. Not the most obvious location for a street killing. The rich tended to commit their safer crimes in the privacy of their own homes, and their more dangerous ones as far afield as they thought to be anonymous.

There was no gathering point, such as a park, shop or corner, near the scene. Tarmac condition and direct experience on driving to the scene showed that the road saw little traffic; a quiet area.

Conclusion 1: the victim was walking to or from one of the nearby houses, on foot, most likely a local resident or somebody's guest.

As he stepped out of the cab, Lestrade jogged over to meet him. Sherlock took in the Inspector and said, in place of a greeting. "You're going on holiday with the wife on Tuesday. That's why you called me."

"How did you... never mind," Lestrade laughed. "Yes, I admit it. I want to solve this before I go. Sunbathing just isn't the same when your evidence trail is going cold back home. Three days to solve a murder is pushing it a bit though, so I was hoping you could help."

"It's not my job to ease your conscience Inspector. Interesting cases only."

Lestrade sighed. "Let's hope you find Samuel Rowland fascinating then."

"Who's on forensics?"

"Don't worry, it's Gomez."

"Any witnesses?" Sherlock asked.

"If there were I wouldn't need you," Lestrade quipped.

Sherlock shot him a look, "Unlikely. Did the neighbours hear anything?"

"No," Lestrade confirmed. "The body was found by a dog walker, this morning."

Conclusion 2: Possibly a professional or experienced killer. Quick and quiet enough that the murder didn't wake anyone.

Lestrade escorted him through the onlookers and under the police tape to where Gomez was still combing the scene. She looked up and nodded in greeting, then continued with her examination. Sherlock snapped on a pair of latex gloves, glad that he at least wouldn't have to suffer Anderson.

"Right, this is Samuel Rowland," Lestrade indicated the body. "What do you think?"

The victim was male, aged about seventeen, well-built, bleached hair. Expensive clothing, fashionable, up-market, no visible brand names or garish displays of wealth. The outfit was a few months old, but had only been washed a handful of times. Possible special occasion; more likely he was accustomed to expensive clothes and didn't need to wear them till they wore out. Too young to be earning that kind of money himself, particularly as most teenagers, especially of his social class, attend college and if they do work, do so part-time.

Conclusion: generous pocket money from parents, in-keeping with the theory that he lives near the crime scene.

The body was sprawled across the path, dropped or fallen. The hunched position suggested he was conscious when he fell, reacting to the pain of a beating. A quick lift of the boy's shirt confirmed this. No tearing or damage to the clothing. Cause of death most likely the slashed throat. Blood pool showed he was killed there, whilst lying on the ground, not dumped.

Conclusion: evidence suggests for the second time that this was a professional or experienced killer.

Mobile phone shattered nearby. Ah...

So far, so obvious. Even the police had figured out that much. Probably.

"Gomez," he said to forensic investigator. "What's your diagnosis?"

Gomez looked up. "Beaten up first, multiple blows to abdomen. Blood and slash pattern show the throat was cut whilst he recovered on the ground. Cause of death asphyxiation, although blood loss would have done it shortly afterwards. ETD, 3am."

"What can you tell me about the killers?" Sherlock asked.

"Killers?" Gomez asked.

"Yes. Well, technically one killer, one accomplice."

Lestrade looked around carefully at the scene, then sighed when he couldn't figure out what about it had led the consulting detective to his deduction. "Alright, how can you tell?"

Sherlock's lip twitched into a half smile.

"The phone."

"The smashed phone? Dropped by Rowland," Lestrade said.

Sherlock looked at him in apparent surprise. He stepped towards Sam Rowland's body and slid a phone out of his inside jacket pocket. "This is Samuel Rowland's phone. That is his friend's phone. Possibly a date, more likely a friend; clearly a young person, gender indeterminable until..."

Gomez tutted. "I hadn't finished looking him over," she said defensively to Lestrade.

"I know, it's fine," Lestrade assured her.

Sherlock unlocked the phone in his hand, no password, and scrolled through the recent texts.

Me: 5.03pm: Mum totally bought it.

Leo J: 5.05pm: Excellent. Mine too.

Me: 5.05pm: Game on, see you at 8. Sensations is gonna be sensational! Sam.

Me: 1.55am: Wherre u? x

Me: 2.00am: JULES! WTF, where u?

Leo J: 2.10am: Vomit. Bogs :(((

2.30am: outgoing call to London taxi company, 60 seconds.

He held out the phone and dropped it into Gomez's waiting evidence bag.

"Leonard Jules is the name of our kidnap victim," Sherlock announced.

"Kidnap?" said Lestrade and Gomez together.

Sherlock sighed deeply, "However did you manage before you met me? It's a wonder half of London isn't dead by now."

Lestrade frowned and rubbed his lip.

Sergeant Donovan ducked under the tape and started over towards them with the air of someone who had just discovered something important. "Sir, I..."

"Just a moment, Donovan," Lestrade stopped her. "Out with it, Sherlock."

"It's obvious. The dropped phone isn't the victim's..."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and it's the killer's," Donovan cut in.

"Keep up, Sgt," mocked Sherlock. "The killer was too experienced to leave such an obvious and traceable piece of evidence."

Donovan pursed her lips, irritated.

Sherlock continued: "This is the most likely sequence of events: Samuel Rowland and his friend Leo Jules lied to their parents about their whereabouts and went to Sensations nightclub, where they got drunk and did whatever else teenagers do for fun. At around 2.45, they caught a taxi, but got dropped off a short way from home, probably to avoid waking up the whole street with a conspicuous motor, alternatively because Leo was being sick and the driver threw them out.

Either way, they staggered down the street. Leonard was distracted by his phone, probably sexting somebody whose number he got at the club."

"Sexting?" said Lestrade.

"Flirtatious text messages," Donovan clarified.

"It pays to keep up with language developments, Lestrade," said Sherlock with reproach. "It was late, it's more likely he was texting someone he knew would be awake. Someone from the club then. He's a teenage boy who just met someone at a club. Therefore, sexting.

The pair were startled by two men and Leo dropped his phone. Samuel started to run, but was caught, beaten and killed. Clearly, Leo was restrained during all this, possibly drugged, as Samuel's wound patterns suggest his killer wasn't thrown off guard by an intervention and..."

"Maybe Leo was frightened," suggested Donovan. "Most people like to avoid murderers."

"The killer had his hands full with Samuel. If Leo wasn't restrained, he would have run and screamed or shouted for help."

"How do you..." Lestrade started. "Ah, because in this quiet street, someone would've heard a scream and called the police."

"Well done, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock. "Samuel was punched in the stomach repeatedly to subdue and wind him. The beating was methodical, not passionate; the hits are in the same area and no clothing is torn, showing a lack of emotion. The man was doing a job, calmly. A professional. But why? Why? That is the question."

"I'm more interested in 'who?'" said Donovan.

"That too," agreed Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled out his own mobile and put "Leo Jules" into Google.

"Leo Jules" = Facebook, US White Pages, Youtube...

"Leonard Jules" London = Facebook, Yellow Pages, nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Leonard Jules" London = ... Damian Jules and his son, Leonard Jules...

Ah ha.

"Samuel Rowland" London = Facebook, Yellow Pages, nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Ah ha."

Sherlock was getting excited.

"Leonard Jules, son of government official Damian Jules. A rich government official. Conclusion: Leo was kidnapped for blackmail or revenge, monetary or political. But which?"

Sherlock drank in their gaping amazement, then exclaimed, "Ohhh, a murder disguising a political kidnapping. Yes, you heard me. Disguising. Samuel was likely collateral. Not as good as a serial killer, but a cut above the average rubbish. Brilliant. Thank you, Lestrade!"

Lestrade looked a little uncomfortable. Donovan looked horrified, and gestured to the gathered crowd. "His friends and family could be standing over there!"

Sherlock scoffed. "Then I'm sure they'll be relieved to hear that the case is half-solved."

"A little compassion wouldn't hurt," Donovan spat.

"Nor would it help," Sherlock retorted.

Donovan glared at him in disgust. "How can you just…"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Sergeant. Get Damian Jules's address, see if his son Leo is missing."

"Five minutes at their house," Sherlock asked fervently.

Donovan tutted, "I am not having that freak tagging along."

Lestrade nodded and looked at the consulting detective apologetically. "Sherlock, thanks for the..." He gestured at the crime scene. "...this. It's appreciated. But I don't think interviews are really your area."

Sherlock frowned and paused as if he expected Lestrade to say, "But..."

Lestrade just looked him in the eye, resolved.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. "I'll be in touch when I've solved the case."

"Sherlock, don't..."

But he was gone, in a whirl of his long black coat.

Sherlock had read all of Lestrade's texts since walking off earlier that day, but he hadn't bothered to respond.

Don't go off on your own! GL

Sherlock, I'm serious. GL

You were right. Kidnapping. Parents distraught, Leo's thought he was at Sam's and vice versa. GL

No ransom note. GL

Come on, let's work together on this. I could do with your advice! GL

Sherlock stubbed the cigarette out on the window ledge and flicked it onto his small balcony with the rest. The collection of stubs was beginning to look quite disgusting. Or perhaps like a piece of contemporary art, reflecting the state of society. One or the other, or both.

He pulled his legs up to his chest and peered over his knees at the skull on the bookshelf.

"The key is to ask the right question," he said aloud. "Question one. Why do people prefer useless declarations of sympathy to useful and effective investigation techniques?"

He paused, as if to allow the skull to respond.

"Oh yes, because they're stupid.

Question two: What do the kidnappers want from Damian Jules?"

He pushed his palms together and held them in front of his face, then sat very still, channeling his thoughts. He had, of course, already researched government official Damian Jules's recent activity as far as he could without asking Mycroft for higher level access. Bugger it if he was going to give his brother that satisfaction.

Jules had his finger in many pies, of course, many of them in some way controversial to somebody. The one that stood out was a recent green paper that the tabloids had nicknamed the "Jack Bauer law", apparently after a popular TV character who tortured terrorists for the good of national security. Like the character it was named for, Jules's green paper proposed increasing the government's right to interrogate suspected criminals and terrorists without trial or police involvement.

However, a high profile kidnapping like this would, if anything, encourage support for the Jack Bauer law - an unlikely motive for professional criminals. And if the kidnappers wanted to prevent the law from passing, they were being very, very stupid. He doubted that. If they were stupid, he would have them by now.

Dammit, he needed more data. He needed to speak to Damian Jules and figure out what the kidnappers could want from him. Sod Lestrade and Donovan, he wasn't that bad at doing compassion, and his interview techniques were bound to be more effective than theirs. The police probably couldn't even tell when someone was lying.

Idiots, the lot of them.


	2. Chapter 2

As Sherlock walked down the pebbled drive of the Jules's unnecessarily large, detached house, he flicked his cigarette stub into a plant bed and rounded off his mental list of potential kidnap motivations, with:

73\. Teach somebody a lesson.

74\. Gain a reputation.

75\. Revenge.

76\. Boredom.

Nothing was obvious, yet. Hopefully interviewing Leonard's parents would help to narrow things down. He prepared to do his best normal person impersonation and readied his hand for a shake.

-brrring brrring-

"Good evening, I'm..."

He snatched his hand back as he cut his sentence short. Standing in front of him was someone he had hoped never to see again.

"...Sherlock Holmes," the woman said, with a smile. "Long time no see."

Irritated by his unguarded reaction to seeing... her, he forced himself to extend the hand again and she took it, loosely.

"Myra," he said in greeting, dropping the non-sociopath act and returning to his usual desultory tone.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Fine," he said shortly. "Don't worry, I'm not here to... reminisce. I'm investigating your step-son Leonard's disappearance."

"Oh." She moved aside to let him in, "You're with the police now?"

"Yes. They consult me, I solve crimes for them and they get promoted."

She laughed. "The police don't need private detectives."

"Consulting detective," he corrected.

"All the same, I'd rather leave this matter to the professionals."

He sighed and looked around pointedly. "So. What's been going on with you?"

"Well..."

"No, don't tell me," he interrupted. "I'll tell you. You've been married to Damian Jules for five years. Second marriage for both of you. You work full-time as a counsellor or social worker... social worker. Damian works away a lot - he's away now in fact, working, even at a time like this. You've never strayed, but you are lonely, miserable and sick of being a single parent to someone else's child."

"How..."

"I observed. The anniversary card in the bin: married for five years. You're sentimental, because you have saved souvenirs from your travels, your school prefect badge and that ridiculous dinosaur teddy you've had since you were eight. Sentimental, but your card's in the bin? Unhappy marriage. My research showed Damian's wife was Myra Hubbard. Not your maiden name: second marriage.

You have files organised by surname on your laptop, and have open a client's case study you've been working on over dinner..." he gestured to the open laptop and sandwich on the desk. "You work with troubled people on a 1:1 basis, and the job is involved enough that you continue in your spare time. All of your sensible shoes are fairly new, but have been walked in frequently. You don't spend your whole working day at a desk or on a couch. So, social worker.

Sick of being a step-parent? Well, that's easy. There's the long-term bags under your eyes, the fact you're barely concerned about the matter of Leonard's abduction, and the fact that I. Know. You. You're not the nurturing sort."

She slapped him.

He turned his head with it, then looked at her and laughed wryly. "Just like old times."

She frowned and rubbed her hand self-consciously.

He continued: "As I said, I'm not here to reminisce. I am here to find a clue to lead me to Leonard, using the same deductive skills I just demonstrated. Show me his room."

She hesitated, but then started through the house. He followed.

"You don't know me," she said, defensively. "You knew the fourteen year-old me. I may not be close to Leo, but I am upset he's in danger."

"Is Leonard's mother still in the picture?" Sherlock asked.

"Dead," Myra said.

Not a suspect, then. Verify later.

"So," Myra said hesitantly. "What've you been up to these past fifteen years?"

"Seventeen," he corrected.

She paused, but he didn't answer her question, so she carried on: "I still see Mycroft sometimes. At government functions. He seems well."

"Hmmm."

"Damian doesn't know that Mycroft was my first love. Well, we were only fourteen, no point in bringing it up now is there?"

"Nope," he said shortly. "No point whatsoever."

"Can you remember that silly game the three of us used to play when we were... oh, about seven or eight? That board game? I've been trying to remember the name of it and..."

"Junior Dingbats," he said shortly.

"Oh yes, that was it. Mycroft was a stickler for reading out the rule book. You always won."

He didn't bother to respond. Instead, he took in as much information as he could from the house whilst paying as little attention as he could to her inane prattling. Much to his relief, she sank into silence as they continued up the stairs.

Clean. Probable housekeeper. Possible source of information.

Old furniture, well kept. Rich enough to update; pretentious enough to avoid doing so. Old money.

Few signs of a teenage occupant. Mostly kept to his room. Unlikely to be close to father or step-mother.

When Myra reached the top, she turned to face him.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed quickly, as if she was worried she wouldn't say it if she hesitated.

"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "You didn't hurt me. I'm not a skinny twelve year-old any more."

"Not the slap," she said.

"Oh."

"For... when we were at school."

"Oh," he said.

He had no interest in forgiving her, but even less interest in an emotional outburst about how sorry she was.

" was terrible. Awful," she said sadly. "Always punching you, pushing you over. Tying you up in the caretaker's shed and letting my friends... do, er..."

"Hmmm." He responded as minimally as possible, so as not to encourage her to continue. His face was impassive, his tone disinterested.

"... you know. That incident. I can't even say it out loud. But that's not me anymore, it isn't! I don't even know why I did those things."

"Hmmm," he repeated, this time sounding more interested, as he realised there was something to gain from this interaction after all.

Something was off about this conversation. What was Myra's motive?

Option one. Myra genuinely wanted to amend. A bully at fourteen did not necessarily make a bitch at thirty-one.

Option two. Myra was trying to distract him from something, by bringing up unpleasant childhood memories. An apology was the best method of disguising the ruse; taunts would be too childish and obvious.

Option three. A bit of both.

She had been disturbingly creative with her torture as a child. It seemed unlikely that she had since become a gentle and moral person.

Her initial reaction to seeing him had not been guilt. She had greeted him confidently, almost smugly, and slapped him within minutes of his arrival - she still had a temper, and her remorse was likely superficial or at least shallow.

Whatever her motive, she was showing a distinct lack of focus on her step-son's kidnapping. Before his arrival she was working on her social work caseload. Now that Sherlock was here, investigating, she was continuously changing the subject.

It was obvious she didn't care for the boy, but even if she was callous enough not to be concerned for his safety, she should at least be frightened for herself, being alone in the house, waiting for contact from the dangerous men who had murdered Sam Rowland. Instead, she was answering the door to unexpected visitors in the dark.

Lestrade, via Donovan, had described Myra as 'distraught'. Perhaps she had been acting for the police. Perhaps the sudden appearance of her childhood victim Sherlock had snapped her out of her distraught act, just as seeing her had snapped him out of his compassion act.

Conclusion: she was involved in the abduction somehow. It was the most logical explanation of all the facts so far.

Brilliant. This was getting better and better. But time could still be running out for Leonard Jules, and his step-mother was still looking at Sherlock, waiting for something. He had all the information he needed from the subject of her supposed guilt; to prolong the topic of his childhood misery would be pointless and irritating.

"The room," he reminded her, finally.

She sniffed and gestured towards a closed door.

A few minutes of snooping in the cupboards and drawers, behind the curtains, under the mattress and in the covers, and he had what he wanted: a clue. He pulled a pharmacy slip from the waste-paper basket under the empty computer desk. Leonard Jules had filled a prescription for a week's supply of insulin two days ago.

"Oh no," he said, sounding concerned.

"What is it?"

"Leo's diabetic."

"Yes," she said, "So...?"

"Well, he won't have enough insulin with him will he? Couldn't that be dangerous?"

She looked startled, "Oh crap, yes. Yes, it could."

"Show me the medication," he said.

"W... what? Why?"

"I need to know how it might have reacted to the drug he was injected with," Sherlock lied

"They used a...? Well, if you know what they used, can't you just look it up?"

"No. Totally new drug. It hasn't been researched yet, so this could well be a unique case. Therefore, I will need a sample of insulin to conduct my own experiment as to its effects."

Sherlock watched her carefully, wondering what the outcome of his real experiment would be.

"I...I…" she stuttered. She paused, then continued with resolve: "I'm not comfortable giving you my step-son's medication, Sherlock."

"Even though it could save his life?" Sherlock said, as if surprised.

"It's just... you're not a real detective. I'm not sure what you're even doing here. I can only think that you want to torment me as some sort of sick revenge for what I did to you. We were just kids, Sherlock. Kids are kids."

Sherlock smiled a little bit at her resorting to another attempt to dredge up the past. His experiment had proved to be illuminating. "I'll be sure to mention the insulin to the real detectives. Can I just use your loo before I go?"

"I... uh, yeah, sure. Just down the hall, on the right."

Ah, English manners. A polite request almost never failed to illicit an instinctively polite response, even in the most impolite of circumstances.

Sherlock locked the bathroom door behind him and silently opened the cabinet above the sink. There were a range of medicines stored in there, but no insulin. Just as he suspected. Of course, it could be stored somewhere else, but he didn't think so. Oh no, there was something else going on here. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands and let himself out.

"You think the mother did it?" Donovan said, incredulous.

She, Lestrade and Sherlock were standing under Scotland Yard's smoking shelter. Sherlock was running a secret competition between the shelter and his balcony as to which he could make the most revolting. He flicked his fag end onto the floor with the rest. It was close, but the Yard was definitely winning.

"Step-mother," said Sherlock. "And no, Myra Jules's not the kidnapper, obviously. But yes, she's involved."

"Because she wouldn't give a drug addict her son's medication?"

Donovan snapped.

"Step-son," Sherlock corrected, ignoring the jibe. "And she didn't show me it, because it wasn't there. Clearly it has been passed onto the kidnappers, so that he doesn't come to permanent harm."

Sherlock took out a second cigarette. Lestrade offered him a light and he leaned in and took it, inhaling deeply.

"What makes you think Leonard wasn't carrying the insulin?" asked Lestrade, lighting up another one himself.

Sally rolled her eyes at their chain-smoking and sipped her coffee.

"He was probably carrying some of it," acknowledged Sherlock. "But nobody would carry a week's supply of insulin in their pockets when they planned to return home the following day."

There was a long pause, as Lestrade reflected on the impeccable logic.

"That is ridiculous," said Donovan. "We don't even know that the insulin's not in the house."

"Maybe, maybe not," Lestrade finally admitted. "Either way, you shouldn't have gone on your own, Sherlock. I'm grateful for your help, but this is our case and you're legally a civilian."

"Fine, consider it to have been a social call. Myra Jules is an old... acquaintance of mine."

"Why didn't you mention it before?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

"Acquaintance?" Donovan asked. "Ex-girlfriend? If he's this close to the victims he shouldn't be involved, sir."

Sherlock shot Donovan an irritated look.

"Don't try to deduce, Donovan, it doesn't suit you. Acquaintance, in this case, means acquaintance. Close? Hardly. The idea that an emotional connection would affect my conduct on a case? Ridiculous," said Sherlock, watching Donovan try to figure out if he was lying. He snorted. As if she could.

"Yeah, what was I thinking?" laughed Donovan. "You with a girlfriend?"

Sherlock ignored her. "Did you find anything useful on Leonard's computer?"

"No, just typical teenage stuff," confirmed Lestrade, not bothering to ask how he knew they'd taken the machine. "Leonard Jules is a bit young to have dangerous enemies of his own. We're assuming that the kidnapping is related to the father, Damian Jules. Someone that high profile, working for the government, and rich, it makes sense."

"What did Damian have to say about it?" Sherlock asked.

"He thinks it's related to his green paper, the 'Jack Bauer law', as the press are calling it."

Interesting that the green paper had come up again. Sherlock had already discounted that as a motive for the kidnappers, but could Jules snr. have staged the kidnapping himself to gain support?

"Is he getting any airtime from this?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, he did a press conference this morning asking for any witnesses to come forward."

"Did he mention the Jack Bauer law?"

"Er... yes, I think he did. Yes, I remember thinking it was a bit tactless."

"Interesting," said Sherlock.

But no. No, no. That wasn't right. If Damian Jules wanted support for the Jack Bauer law, staging a terrorist attack would have been far more effective, less traceable to him, and all round easier to pull off safely. Killing the son's friend would also be a step too far too, for most people.

Yet, Damian was at work the night after his son's kidnapping, leaving his wife alone at home to answer the door to strange men. He was also not above using an appeal for witnesses to promote his precious green paper. Possibly just a callous workaholic. More likely, if Myra was involved, so was he.

But why kidnap your own son?

"Right, see you later."

"Where are you going?" complained Lestrade, "Don't you want to come along to interview the taxi driver and the nightclub staff?"

"No. Boring," Sherlock said, leaning back around the doorframe. "Interviews aren't really my thing, remember. Text me if the kidnappers get in touch."


	3. Chapter 3

"Coffee, two sugars please," he said to Emily from room 2 as he walked into the communal kitchen back at Montague st. The kettle was almost boiled and she was washing up a few of her plates while she waited, sleeves rolled up and hands gloveless and sudsy.

He flopped into the chair, pushed his science experiment aside and started drumming on the white, plastic table with his fingertips.

"Ok, sure," Emily said cheerfully, looking around for a spare mug. "I'm making one anyway. Which one's your cupboard?"

He pointed towards it without looking.

She opened the door and froze at the sight of its contents, "Er..."

"Could I possibly borrow one of your mugs?" Sherlock asked evenly.

"Yes, ok," she said, closing his cupboard and opening her own. The kitchen was filled with the pleasant sounds of tea-making.

"So, you're Sherlock, aren't you?"

"Yes. And you're Emily from room 2. Sorry if my experiments have been affecting your asthma."

"No, no, not at all. I think it's quite interesting. I'm a bit of a science freak myself. Just at A Level, but I like to keep up with new advancements and things."

She looked over and he smiled blandly. "I see," he said.

So, who was lying, Emily, or the landlord?

Option one: she had made a complaint about his equipment, but wasn't confident enough to confirm it to his face.

Option two: the landlord wanted to complain, but wasn't confident enough to do so without pretending it had come from the tenants.

No, no, no. He didn't have time for that sort of thinking. He needed to figure out why a parent and a step-parent would want to have their own son abducted. He reviewed his mental list of potential motives for a kidnapping:

1\. Money

That obviously wasn't it. Any money that Leonard had came from his father.

2\. Power

There was a power-struggle between parents and teenagers around this age, but kidnapping would be a ridiculous, over-dramatic and dangerous method of gaining power over one's own kin.

Then again, Mycroft wasn't averse to kidnapping Sherlock to force him into listening to some request, plea or complaint.

If Mycroft could do it, who's to say that the Jules family couldn't? He and Damian were both government employees after all, and he and Myra had both been prefects and partners at the same school. They were of the same ilk.

He frowned at that thought.

"Two sugars did you say?" Emily asked. She remembered, she just thought the silence was awkward. How dull.

"Hmmm," confirmed Sherlock.

3\. Blackmail

Parents blackmail their children all the time, but kidnapping would be an unusually extreme method of getting their son to obey them.

And again, there was Mycroft's casual kidnapping habit as a potential comparison.

Mycroft would never allow the police to be involved, though, it was always a private matter. For the Jules to risk this, whatever they wanted must be very important.

Emily passed him the coffee and sat down at the table, next to him.

"You have a daughter, don't you?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, yes. Phoebe, she's eight," Emily said, pleased to be asked. "Not really the best home for a child, is it, one room in a shared house? But I can't afford anywhere bigger. Well, I could move to a different area, but what I saved on rent I'd lose in transport costs, and we're close to her dad here, so that's nice for her in that sense... do you have any children?"

He nodded and shook his head politely as she prattled. "No. But I'm studying parenting methods. How important is it for a parent to control their child? What methods would you be prepared to use?"

She looked uncomfortable. "Well, uh..."

"I'm a detective," he said. "It's for a missing person's case."

"Oh, right. Okay. What's the case about?"

"It's confidential," he said, with an air of mystery.

"Oh, of course," she laughed, and he smiled encouragingly.

"Well," she continued. "It's not really... well, I suppose it is about control, in a way. You want them to have their own identity, be their own person. But you've got to teach them right from wrong, y'know? It's all about teaching them and keeping them safe. Until they can do that themselves, you have to do it for them."

"And methods?"

"Whatever works. Not violence, although some people do obviously. Presumably if you're investigating a crime, violence might be relevant."

"Yes, of course," he said darkly.

"For me it would be grounding her, no internet for a week, no pocket money, saying I'm disappointed. You know, little punishments... as a deterrent for the future. God, it sounds horrible when you say it like that."

"Yes, imagine being offline for a whole week. Terrible," he deadpanned. "That was most illuminating, thank you."

"Oh good, did I help?"

"Possibly," he said. "Excuse me."

He took his coffee and returned to his room, lying ramrod straight in the centre of the bed with his eyes closed. He scrolled through his mental list of kidnapping motives until he reached:

73\. Teach somebody a lesson.

Emily from room 2 was an exceedingly ordinary woman who thought up minor punishments to control her daughter, to teach her right from wrong and keep her safe. What would happen if that same instinct were present in a different kind of person? Someone for whom violent intimidation was acceptable?

He knew from his own personal experience that Myra had, at least as a teenager, enjoyed using force to inflict pain and gain power. Fourteen was young, but not that young. Even children of six or seven displayed many traits they would carry to adulthood.

Mycroft, for example, had been an insufferably suffocating older brother at seven. And by fourteen, he was practically running their school, yet claimed to have no clue about what his own girlfriend was up to. It was the microcosmic version of the man's adult life.

As for Myra's husband, Damian Jules, Sherlock hadn't had the chance to deduce his history, but he had a few clues as to his current character. For example, he was trying to push forward the Jack Bauer law, which advocated the use of government interrogation without trial, the subtext being that no measure was too extreme if it meant preventing terrorism, possibly even the torture of potentially innocent suspects. Not something the average person would advocate. Like Myra, Damian was a person of dubious moral character.

The question was, would the Jules apply the same forceful principles and behaviour they were capable of in other circumstances to discipline their own son?

Conclusion: potentially, yes.

Not for something trivial, obviously. Not because he stayed out late, or skived college, or had started drinking underage. Teenagers did those things; it wasn't advocated by parents, but it was normal for seventeen. No, it would have to be something major. Something that would cause scandal and uproar, something more dangerous even than staging a kidnapping and committing murder.

Conclusion: Leonard had most likely done something criminal or scandalous.

Now what was it?

He grabbed his laptop and loaded up Firefox. He would have to search for anything major had happened in the Jules neighbourhood in the past couple of months.

-BANG BANG BANG-

Oh, what now?

"Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Phillips shouted through the door. "Mr. Holmes? I just saw you go in there, I know you're still awake."

Sherlock stopped typing, held his breath and sat completely still.

"Mr. Holmes? Is that your bag of blood in the bathroom? And those rusty scalpels, and all those dirty lollipop sticks? People are scared of having a shower, in case they catch something. I've half a mind to call the police."

Damn, he had been distracted from his experiment into the effects of different materials on blood samples. Now it was probably contaminated.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock didn't move a muscle.

Phillips sighed loudly enough for the sound to travel through the door, and walked away down the hall. Sherlock continued to breathe, type and search. Google was as good a place as any for the first stage of the research, after that he would dig deeper. Blogs, Facebook accounts, school newsletters...

If he could just figure out what Leonard Jules had done to incur his parents' wrath, perhaps he could get the boy home, allow Lestrade a peaceful holiday and, most importantly, solve the case.

His phone beeped.

Taxi driver confirms the boys asked to be dropped off down the street. He didn't see anything. GL

Nightclub = nothing useful. GL

I will be working straight through the night with this one. Text me if you have any theories. GL

Sherlock didn't bother to reply.

It was morning by the time Sherlock finished his researching. At half 6 he was at Scotland Yard, wondering if Lestrade had managed to pull an all-nighter too or had succumbed to sleep. He grabbed a coffee, and nodded to the receptionist, but found the DI's office empty.

"Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock greeted formally, approaching her desk. "Where's Lestrade?"

Sally put down her morning coffee. "Out investigating. Won't be back for hours, he's determined to finish this today. Gomez too," she added with a smirk, as if reading his mind.

That was inconvenient. Lestrade was his only ally at the station. Gomez would sometimes put up with him, humour him for the sake of a case. As for the rest. Well...

"I need to see a file..." he said.

"No," said Sally.

"It's extremely important. It's about the Jules case."

"So tell me and I'll think about looking at it."

He exhaled in frustration.

"I don't hand out confidential police files to civilians," she said, cutting him off before he could argue.

Sherlock paused to consider his options.

Option one: Scream some sense into her. Likely outcome: look like an utter pillock and increase Donovan's smugness level.

Option two: Wait for Lestrade. Likely outcome: annoying waste of time, but less satisfaction for Donovan.

Option three: Tell Donovan his theory to persuade her to look up the file. Likely outcome: experience her annoying smugness at his dependence on her help, but solve the case more quickly.

Option four: Attempt to sweet-talk the file clerk into breaking the rules. Likely outcome: the necessity of having to return to option one, two or three. Donovan's smugness level doubled.

Conclusion:

"Fine," Sherlock said, irritated. He explained his theory about the punishment. "They don't want the scandal of having him arrested, but they do want him to see a consequence for his actions. It may be that the crime went completely unreported, but one potential incident did come up in my research. The rape of the Jules's sixteen year-old neighbour Megan Kellar, two months ago."

"And there's evidence that Leonard Jules was the rapist?" Donovan asked.

"Not yet. That's why I want the file," Sherlock said as patiently as he could manage.

"That's ridiculous," Sally laughed. "If the parents did it, then why have the killers demanded a ransom?"

Sherlock was surprised, but he didn't visibly react. A ransom? He had expected Leonard Jules to appear in a few days time with convenient memory loss, or a story about how he had been hiding from the murderers, terrified after witnessing his friend being brutally killed.

"To make it look realistic," he said firmly.

"You knew?" Donovan asked.

"No," he admitted. "Even I am not omnipotent. When is it - the switch?"

"Tomorrow," she said.

He got the distinct impression she was studying his reactions closely.

"Where and when?" he asked.

"You're not coming," she laughed.

"Show me the note," he asked. "Is it..."

"It is in the lab, being analysed by professionals."

Sherlock scoffed. "Anderson? Please."

"Oh, I'm very interested in what he might find," she said, almost threateningly.

He looked her in the eyes and frowned.

"What are you getting at Sergeant?" he asked, slowly.

She stood up from her desk chair to face him squarely. "I've been digging up old cases too. Found out a little something about your acquaintance, Myra Jules, or Myra Smythe as you knew her."

Sherlock tensed, knowing where this was going, but refusing to give her the satisfaction of turning away in embarrassment.

She continued, "You weren't kidding when you said you weren't close. She beat you up at school. That must have made you really mad."

Sherlock laughed out loud. "And what, Sally? You think that I waited seventeen years then had her step-son kidnapped as revenge? She doesn't even like Leonard, why would she care?"

"Why would she care?" Donovan said, incredulous. "Whatever she did to you, I'm not defending it. But she was a child then, and right now she's a scared parent. The last thing she needs right now is for us to accuse her son of being a rapist. He doesn't even have a record."

"Our job is to discover the truth, Sergeant."

"I agree. Myra Jules called the station this morning and put in a complaint about your interrogation. She felt threatened into showing you Leonard's room and wants to press charges."

"I'm sure you did nothing to encourage her," Sherlock said evenly.

"This way, please, Mr. Holmes. I need to take your statement."

"You are not serious?" he said. "This is a waste of time."

"Is it?" said Donovan. "You have a motive, you knew about the kidnapping before the parents and the police, and you clearly don't give a toss about any of the victims. I'd say you're exactly the person I need to talk to. Now please follow me."

"No," Sherlock said, quiet but furious.

"Excuse me?" she said, incredulous.

"No. This is because I'm not compassionate enough, isn't it? You're upset that I don't cry at crime scenes and spout empty platitudes, so I must be a psychopath or a criminal."

"You said it," she said cockily, crossing her arms.

He leaned in. "Like it or not Sergeant, I can solve this case quicker than anyone here. If you really care about Leonard you will help me or stay out of my way. Not waste my time with this… this Myra Smythe… Jules… rubbish."

"It's not rubbish," she said. "Lestrade told you not to go there. You ignored him, and now…"

"It's not a crime to knock on someone's door."

"It is if you impersonate the police when they open it."

Sherlock tutted. Had Myra claimed that?

"What about slapping a visitor in the face, is that a crime?"

He smirked at Donovan's silence.

"Even if you arrest me, which you won't, you can't force me to make a statement, and I decline the right. Now why don't you do something useful and get me that Kellar case file."

Donovan just looked at him stubbornly.

Sherlock stared straight back, pursed his lips, then turned and stormed out of the bullpen.

"I'll just get your statement later, then," Donovan called. "And stay away from Myra Jules!"


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stormed into his room and slammed the door. He needed the internet, immediately. He opened his laptop and... dammit, the power was off and it was completely dead. It would take at least twenty minutes for that piece of crap to load up from a flat battery, open Firefox and access the internet.

He stormed out into the corridor and almost bumped into Mr. Phillips.

"Mr. Holmes..."

He didn't stop. "Yes, yes Mr. Phillips, I'll get rid of it."

"It's not that Mr. Holmes," Phillips said, following him to the stairway. "It's about last night. That banging, the shouting, the screaming. I had half a mind to call the police."

Ah yes, his little experiment. It has been easy and fun to conduct it whilst Googling.

"And did you call the police?" Sherlock asked, sparing a moment to pause and face him.

"No, I..."

"Why not?"

"Well, I wasn't sure if... well, if..." the old man stuttered.

"Excellent. Did any of the other tenants complain to you?"

"Yes, that's why..."

"And they didn't call the police either?"

"No, well we didn't know if..."

"Brilliant. It is fascinating how reluctant people are to call the police and report a suspected crime. No doubt you feared the embarrassment of wasting the police's time, or that it would damage your company's reputation if the whole street were woken by a police visit at 3am. Therefore, you rationalized all sorts of explanations for the noise. What did you come up with, I wonder? No, don't tell me. At one point, I even shouted 'Stop it, stop it!' and let out a muffled scream. Still you did nothing. And yet a small part of you must have suspected something was awry, or you would have come banging on my door telling me to keep the noise down. Concerned enough to stay in your room, not concerned enough to pick up the phone."

"W...well..." Phillips stuttered.

"Thank you Mr. Phillips, you have given me an excellent insight into the workings of an inferior mind. If you hear anything similar in future, please dial 999. My line of work is rather dangerous, after all."

Sherlock raced up the stairs two at a time and banged on the door to number 2. After a moment, Emily answered.

"Oh, hi Sherlock."

"I need to use your computer," he said, sliding past her into her flat.

"I... uh, ok. Let me just..."

"No time," he said, sitting at her desk and typing, "Gotta go," into her Facebook chat before closing it down.

She began self-consciously folding up her futon, duvet cover and all, then stood awkwardly in front of her washing rack, pocketing a pair of stripy knickers. "Is this about the case?"

"No, I just desperately need to post a status update," he said.

She laughed, and he chuckled in spite of the circumstances. "Yes, it's about the case."

She peered over his shoulder as he typed. "What are you doing?"

"Accessing a suspect's email."

"Woah!" she exclaimed. "He can't trace that back to me, can he?"

"She..." he said, vaguely, tapping away. "Ah, got it."

He scrolled through Myra's in-box. Email confirmation of a large bank transfer this morning Bills, Paypal, inane chatting, inane chatting... ah, this was it. He'd got lucky. Of course, one would have to be in the know to figure out the meaning, but in context:

...I'm scared, Di. It's all going down tonight. "Back where it all started," they said in the note. Anyway, love you, hopefully speak tomorrow. Myra xx

Conclusion: the Jules were fabricating a convincing paper trail to create the appearance of a genuine kidnapping, including allowing friends to think that there was real danger. To do otherwise would arouse suspicion.

The email also showed that the trade of the ransom for Leonard Jules was tonight, not tomorrow. Donovan must have lied about the day in a poor attempt to stop him from showing up.

Another idea occurred to him.

"Oh yes. Yes!" he said aloud.

"What?" Emily asked.

"Confidential," Sherlock said dramatically.

Much as he enjoyed an audience, he could hardly waste time explaining to his neighbour that Myra and Damian Jules were staging a pretend trade tonight: their son for a substantial amount of cash, just to make their kidnap story convincing to the police.

Emily nodded and didn't press, just watched him think.

They were cockier than he had thought, and far more stupid. Any number of things could give them away. Not least, a consulting detective showing up at exactly the right moment to reveal their guilt.

He couldn't wait to see the looks on the Jules couple's faces, and the police's faces. Especially Donovan, who thought she had cleverly tricked him by telling him the meet was tomorrow. She probably expected him to show up in the morning to pester the police to let him tag along, only to find that she, Donovan, had solved the case in his absence. Ha.

Tonight would be fantastic. "Tonight," though. A bit vague. Without knowing the exact time for the staged trade, he would have to get there by at least 7pm and wait it out. 7pm at the latest, earlier if possible.

But where was "there"? Where was "back where it all started"?

"Is it ok if I print this?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, sure. It's just black and white."

"That's fine."

Sherlock's phone went off.

Want to file a counter-complaint? Slap = assault. ;) GL

Sherlock's mouth twitched. At least Lestrade was still on his side.

Too much paperwork. When/where is the meeting with the kidnappers? SH

Tomorrow, but you're not invited. Too dangerous. GL

Hmm, Lestrade was lying to him about the day of the trade as well. Perhaps the DI wasn't on his side. He wouldn't pull him up on it now though, he would save it for his big reveal tonight. Giving up easily would be too obvious, though. Lestrade was occasionally competent and might realise that Sherlock had figured out his ruse.

Dangerous? Exactly why you'll need me. SH

I meant the danger of additional paperwork. Sorry. Will update you after. GL

Sherlock looked up. Emily was still hovering. He smiled politely and snatched up his print-outs. "Thanks, you've been a great help."

His landlord was waiting outside his room, and nervously started to speak.

"Not NOW Mr. Phillips," Sherlock snapped, rushing past the man into his room and slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft was sitting on the bed.

"Get out," Sherlock said immediately.

"That's no way to greet your dear brother."

Sherlock opened the door, and called down the corridor to the retreating Mr. Phillips' back:

"Mr. Phillips, can you call the police please? There's an intruder in my room. Better shut yourself in your flat, too, just to be safe."

"Oh!" Mr. Phillips squeaked, doubling his hobbling speed.

Mycroft sighed, and speed-dialled his assistant. "Divert and ignore impending 999 call from Mr. Phillips of Montague St." He hung up.

Sherlock scrambled to enter his laptop password. "Seriously, Mycroft, I do not have time for this."

"Not even if 'this' is this?" Mycroft held up a disc.

Sherlock was tempted to continue with his rebuff, but could it be...

"Take a look," encouraged Mycroft, waving the disc.

Sherlock snatched it and pushed it into the DVD drive. "The Kellar case file?"

"What Kellar case file?" said Mycroft.

Sherlock near growled. "Dammit. Of course. Damian Jules got rid of it."

Jules had the contacts needed to make a police file disappear. If it hadn't been for the tiny article in the news, minus the rapists' name, Sherlock wouldn't have even known about it.

He had wanted to ask Megan Kellar outright if it was Leonard Jules who'd raped her, so he could gauge her reaction, but there was nobody in at her house today and her school, St. Mary's grammar, had been extremely uncooperative.

"I wonder what Sergeant Donovan thought when she couldn't find the file," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"Obviously, she searched for the file after you left. She may not trust you, but she wouldn't ignore a lead. No doubt she thinks you want to hurt Myra by accusing her step-son of an imaginary rape. Curious, isn't it, their opinion of you? No matter how much you try to help them, they still hate you."

"Sounds like my relationship with you," bit Sherlock.

"You don't covet their admiration?"

He snorted. "Of course not."

Mycroft smiled smugly. "Then I'm sure you're not planning a dramatic revelation of the facts of the case during a moment of high tension."

"Hmmm."

The disc had finally loaded, and it contained a single video file, which Sherlock immediately copied to his hard-drive and blue-toothed to his phone.

"Damian got rid of the original," Mycroft explained, "But his access is limited. He didn't know we had a second copy."

Silent CCTV footage. St. Mary's grammar, just around the corner from the murder scene.

The footage was dated for the 31st of December, the night of the rape. 20.42: It was dark, but the schoolyard was lit by floodlights, revealing a group of teenagers drinking, flirting and messing about, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and cans.

It was unlikely that the rape had taken place with so many witnesses, particularly female ones. He fast-forwarded till there were only two people in the yard.

01.04: Two boys frantically tidying up the scattered rubbish. Leonard Jules and Samuel Rowland. So both boys...

Sherlock rewound again, till there were three teens.

00.22: Leonard Jules, Samuel Rowland and Megan Kellar were alone. He watched, face blank, as the boys raped her. They argued afterwards. Leonard was trying to keep Megan in the yard, grabbing her arm. Samuel tore her away and shoved her towards the gate. She ran. The boys argued some more, then Leonard gestured at the scene, the mess, and they started to clear up. The whole thing took about an hour.

Sherlock paused it, and said thoughtfully, "Samuel Rowland wanted to go to the police. Or Damian Jules was worried that he would, eventually. Samuel was a loose end. Damn! Rowland wasn't collateral - he was the first target!"

He pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.

Megan Kellar. Protective custody. Now. SH

A moment later, Sherlock's phone rang. He ignored it.

"What have you got against Jules, anyway?" Sherlock asked his brother.

Why? GL

Explain later. SH

"Perhaps I just wanted to help out my little brother on a case?" Mycroft said.

Sherlock gave him a look as he put his coat and scarf back on. "Perhaps you're upset because Myra dumped you as a chubby little prefect?"

The phone started ringing again. Lestrade. He ignored it, and checked himself in the mirror that hung over the bureau.

Mycroft snorted. "Hardly. It's not Myra, although I'll admit there's no love lost there either. It's Damian. More specifically, his green paper..."

Hmm. He would let Mycroft think he was convinced. For now.

"Torturing the innocent until they're proven guilty?" Sherlock said. "I thought that sort of law would be right up your street."

"Obviously," said Mycroft, and Sherlock couldn't tell if he was serious or sarcastic. "But some things are best left behind closed doors. Where are you going?"

Sherlock tucked the disc into his inside pocket. "Back to where it all began."  
... 

Sherlock arrived at quarter to seven, before the kidnappers and, as far as he could discern, before the police, unless they had finally learnt to be inconspicuous. That meant there was likely a while to wait, but he would rather that than be too late. He figured the trade would happen near the actual spot in the yard where the rape had occurred, and sure enough, the CCTV had been knocked off kilter and was now uselessly facing the sky. He'd noted that it hadn't been that way earlier in the day when he'd come to enquire about Megan Kellar.

There was little space to hide, just the entranceway to the school, which would only conceal him from certain angles, and the gap behind the caretaker's shed. The grass was trodden down and littered with fag butts, and as he slipped down there, he wished he hadn't worn his favourite shoes.

A different school, a different shed, but the context brought back memories. Some of them unpleasant; the culmination of Myra's bullying campaign for one, when she and her friends had broken in, tied him up and used the garden tools and their cigarettes to play a sick dare game with him. Then they'd freaked out and left him there, not knowing what to do with a bloody, half-conscious twelve year-old. After several hours, he had been found by the caretaker, dehydrated and delirious. No doubt health and safety regulations were tighter now - children would not have easy access to a shed full of potential weapons.

Other memories were fonder. After Myra was expelled, he was untouchable, and had a rare period of popularity. Some kids were attracted to his fame, others to the tragedy of his experience and the novelty of his scars. It was a thrill to hide behind the scene of a crime with its victim, share a cigarette, then return to lessons with an adrenaline rush, wondering if the teachers would notice the smell of smoke.

Later, when the novelty of his ordeal had worn off and people had remembered how weird and irritating he was, he had smoked alone behind the shed, listening to the other kids talk and deducing to entertain himself. They were too scared of his mouth to make him leave.

Ah, smoking. It was tempting to light one up now, but it was too risky. He didn't think that anyone could sneak up on him - he was far too observant to not hear them coming - but sometimes it didn't pay to be cocky and the smell or the smoke could give him away.

Enough nostalgia. It was time wasted that could be spent thinking productively.

On the way here, he had exhausted the subject of Mycroft's true motives in giving him the disc. It was a dead end for the time being.

So, new topic. What could he learn from the location? Well, it was a good one, well thought-out. The significance of the place was obviously a major factor in the decision, but it had other qualities. The yard was quite open, with nowhere for the police to set up their operation: the gap behind the shed was a one-person hiding spot and the shed itself was tiny; the police would want to listen in via microphone, gauging the situation, then have several people run in at once to arrest the kidnappers. This would increase their chances of success and reduce the risk of casualties. With that in mind, Sherlock figured that they would be setting up inside the school or in a parked van on the street and wouldn't come across his own, more compact hiding place.

Despite its openness once in it, the rectangular yard was not visible from outside the grounds of the school. On one side, there was the large building itself; on the other, the bank leading upwards to the playing field. At either end of the yard, there were further restrictions to the view. The end nearest to Sherlock had a stairway that led up to street level, but the street itself was quite a way away, the route flanked by bike sheds. The end furthest from where he stood was not visible in the dark, but he knew from his earlier visit that another high fence framed it, and that beyond that were the back gardens of a residential area, the houses sheltered by rows of trees.

With the CCTV disabled, it could not be a better location for a criminal rendezvous. The only drawback was that it was known as a teenage drinking hangout, but a Sunday night should be fairly safe, especially if gossip had got around about the rape that had happened here.

He checked his silenced phone and saw that Lestrade had texted him ten minutes ago.

Kellar died this morning. An epileptic fit, apparently. Mean anything to you? GL

Dammit. It had to have been engineered by Damian or Myra Jules to stop her from talking. That could have been prevented.

Suspicious. Order autopsy. SH

Why make Megan Kellar's death look accidental, and Samuel Rowland's so obviously intentional? Was Samuel's ill treatment part of the 'lesson' that Leonard needed to learn about consequences? Did they feel they owed Megan's family something more natural, some sort of futile attempt at clawing back a little morality?

Dammit, dammit, dammit. If he had figured it out a little earlier, he could have saved her. He tortured himself over the clues for an hour, Googling furiously on his phone to see if there was anything he'd missed that could have helped. He pushed his weight from one foot to the other to stop himself from going stiff. Then...

A noise. Footsteps. He quickly slipped his phone back into his pocket. Two men, dragging along a skinny teenager. Excellent. They were coming from the opposite end of the yard and wouldn't even pass the bike shed; no chance of discovery, then. One them was texting. He paused, probably receiving one back, then said to his partner, gruffly: "The boss reckons the cops don't know shit about it all."

A boss. Intriguing.

"Nice one. Be glad when this one's over, to be honest."

A hired killer with a conscience?

There was a muffled complaint, obviously from Leonard Jules. Gagged, and no doubt tied up or cuffed as well. "Shut it!" said Conscience, and there was a slap of hand to head. So much for guilt - perhaps the man was just bored enough to wish the kidnapping was over, so he could move onto some nice murdering.

Two more sets of footsteps. Mr. and Mrs. Jules walked down the stone steps and past the caretaker's shed. They didn't notice Sherlock in the dark. Damian was carrying a holdall, no doubt filled with the kidnappers' payment for the murder and fake abduction, disguised as a ransom.

Sherlock stepped out of his hiding place and followed them over to the kidnappers.

"Good evening," he said, smoothly. He could just imagine Lestrade in the police van outside, or wherever they were, swearing in surprise and frustration as they heard him through the Jules couple's bug.

As he had suspected, Leonard Jules was tied up and gagged. He was wearing a smart, trendy outfit in a similar style to Samuel Rowland's, but it was unkempt after twenty-four hours of wear, and stretched by the carrier bag sticking out of a pocket. Not part of his clubbing outfit. The bag had obviously been put there by his captors to save them carrying it around.

Gruff and Conscience, as he had nick-named them in his mind for ease of distinguishing, were dressed more casually, even scruffily. An untrained eye might guess they were tradesmen or labourers. A disguise to help them hide in plain sight. It wouldn't do to walk around looking like gangsters. Conscience was a large man, typical bouncer physique. Gruff was smaller, lean, but well-muscled, and holding a gun to Leonard's head.

"Who the hell is that?" Gruff said, pointing the gun at Sherlock.

"I wouldn't shoot if I were you, the police will be here any minute," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" hissed Myra.

"You know this crazy man?" her husband asked, looking to her sharply.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he introduced himself.

Damian gasped and turned to Gruff and Conscience. "He's not with us, I swear. I don't even know him."

"But I know you, Damian Jules. Government official, father, murderer. And I know that you and Myra orchestrated this whole thing."

Damian's draw dropped. "What? Prove it!"

"Oh, I will."

Sherlock held up his phone and played the CCTV footage of the rape, showing it around to his audience and then emailing it to Lestrade with the click of a button.

"I've just sent DI Lestrade a copy of this school's CCTV from New Year's Eve. As you all know, it was on that date that Leonard Jules and Samuel Rowland raped Megan Kellar in this very spot."

Leonard started to sob in fear.

"Give me that!" Conscience said, snatching the phone and pocketing it.

Sherlock continued. "Damian was terrified of the potential scandal. It could ruin his career, the family name, and of course Leonard's life and reputation. Myra was just angry with Leonard's behaviour. She'd never liked him, and this just proved he was a nasty piece of work who needed more discipline. Together, they concocted a plan to teach Leonard a lesson he would never forget and tie up all the loose ends.

The plan was Sam and Megan dead, and Leonard traumatised into obedience by for-hire criminals that Damian knew through his morally dubious work. Well done Mr. and Mrs. Jules, mission accomplished on all three fronts."

Leonard was gaping at his parents through a flood of tears, shaking uncontrollably, proving Sherlock's point about the trauma.

Sherlock savoured their stunned expressions. "Do you know what it was that gave you away?"

"What?" Damian asked.

Lack of denial, noted. It never hurt to gain more confirmation of what he already knew. With that in mind, Sherlock walked over to Leonard and pulled the carrier bag out of his jacket pocket. He took out the insulin, confirming that it was the personal prescription that had been missing from the house, and held it up to Damian.

"Leonard's diabetes. You had to give the kidnappers his medication, because you wanted him scared not dead. Who was close enough to know about his condition, have access to the insulin and care enough to pass it onto his captors? The answer: his parents."

They all gaped at him. "You figured out all that from insulin?" Conscience exclaimed. "That's insane."

This was Sherlock's favourite moment. The investigation was passionate, frustrating, engaging, tense, stimulating. The climax was the revelation of all the facts and the stunned silence of his audience; the beaten criminals, and the grateful but irritated police. Oh what a wonderful moment. The air felt as if it might be buzzing with electricity.

"Is that enough for you, Lestrade?" he asked.

"Who is he talking to?" said Conscience. "Are you wearing a bug?"

Sherlock raised his arms as Conscience patted him down, then checked the Jules couple. "Nothing," he told his partner.

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. He had thought Myra or Damian would be wired up, so the police knew when to come in and make the arrest. He looked around. Perhaps the bug was somewhere else in the vicinity, then...

"You said no police," Myra said. "Of course we're not wearing a wire. We've done everything you asked."

"Everything they asked?" Sherlock said slowly. "But you hired them."

And then he realised something. "Ah, I see. Damn! Damn it, how could I miss it?"

He started pacing, but Gruff stopped him short with a wave of the gun and an order to "Stay bloody put!" His brain however, continued to race.

"What the hell are we going to do now?" Gruff said.

"We'll have to kill them all," Conscience suggested. Leonard started screaming through his gag, trying to pull away from Gruff.

"But we kept up our end of the bargain," Damian said, distressed, but in control of his reactions after years of diplomatic experience. "We brought the money, distracted the police. Please, we've done everything you asked. Let Leonard go. Let us all go."

"Damn!" Sherlock exclaimed as the final pieces clicked together in his mind. "Obvious! Once they had your son, they had the power. They knew you would go along with their demands because if they were arrested, they would name you as accomplices. They could triple their original fee, quadruple it. You would pay anything, to get Leonard back and avoid scandal. A scandal far worse than the one you were trying to cover up. The ransom note was a ruse…"

He paused, frowning, realising the implications of what he had just figured out: "…and the police really do think this meeting is tomorrow."

Myra was incredulous, "Sherlock, who cares what you got right or wrong, we're all going to bloody die. Maybe you should think about that!"

Sherlock just turned to Conscience and Gruff. "Well done, very well done. I completely missed it."

Myra screamed at him in frustration and turned to Conscience, near hysterical. "You heard what he said. We can't implicate you without implicating ourselves. We will never give you away to the police, because they will arrest us too. Never!"

"But he can give us away," said Conscience, indicating Sherlock.

Sherlock knew that in a moment they would come to the inevitable conclusion that they could not let him live. He had the power to send all five of them to prison, and they didn't have the leverage over him that they had over each other. There was no way to keep him silent except to kill him.

"So, kill him then," Myra cried. "We don't care." She snatched the bag from her husband and thrust it at Conscience. "Take the money. Take it!"

Conscience and Gruff looked to their money, and Sherlock took the moment of distraction to launch himself at Gruff, startling the man into firing the gun. "Myra!" he heard Damian yell, as he wrestled with the criminal to gain hold of the weapon. He twisted the man's hand around until he loosened his grip.

Conscience yanked him up and into a headlock. Sherlock stamped on his assailant's foot, but his smart shoes were no match for steel toecaps, so he reached around and grabbed the man's balls. Conscience yelped, but rather than instinctively protect his groin, he tightened his grip around Sherlock's throat. Sherlock resisted the instinct to grab uselessly at the other man's arms, and dug his fingers deeper into his most sensitive area. Deadlock.

Then Gruff was back on his feet, punching him in the gut. Oof. He'd been right. Definitely experienced. His vision was greying from the lack of oxygen, his head lolling forward, his grip on the other man's testicles loosening.

Conscience shoved him to the ground. Disorientated, he only just managed to cushion his fall with his forearms and avoid landing on his face. He favoured his bruised abdomen for a moment, just like Sam Rowland, and warily eyed the gun Gruff had trained on him, wondering what to do next.

"You bloody faggot!" Conscience yelled, giving in and doubling over from the pain in his groin. He stood there, inhaling deeply for a moment. Once he had regained his composure, he straightened up and kicked Sherlock in the jaw three times, knocking him onto his front, then stamped on his right hand, grinding it into the gravel.

Sherlock cried out before he could stop himself.

Taking things personally. Rather less professional than before. And extremely painful. This could be it. His death. He would rather Myra Smythe not be a witness to it, if he had the choice. Perhaps he could persuade the killers to let the family go so that they could murder him privately. Witnesses were risky for them, and humiliating for him.

He tried to begin his argument, and an intense pain shot through his whole face, sending a wave of nausea swooshing around his aching stomach. His vision was covered in black and white spots, like an un-tuned television. Probable dislocated jaw. Talking was going to be difficult. Little chance of persuading anyone of anything, then.

As for his hand, he was unsure of the exact nature of the damage. It felt numb and painful at the same time. He didn't want to try to move it, it felt awkward and bent.

He tried to focus on the small chunks of gravel that were pressing into his arm, a much, much lesser pain.

Ow. Ow, ow, ow.

They weren't beating him up any more though. So what were they doing?

He rolled over to face the others, and the black and white spots filled his whole vision. The static spread to his brain, and he could hear voices. He listened intently to what they had to say, head swirling centripetally until there was nothing.

When things began to clear, he couldn't remember what he'd heard, but it felt like he was missing something important.

Gruff still had a gun on him. He couldn't see Damian, Leonard or Conscience anywhere, and Myra was on the ground nearby, sobbing, bleeding and trying to put pressure on her leg. The stray gun shot had hit her, he realised.

He was still too woozy to figure out what else had happened. The odds had improved, though, he knew that. One against one. Okay, so one had a gun, and one was lying on the floor with a badly bruised stomach, a dislocated jaw, a probable broken hand and a propensity to pass out.

Still, it was better than two against one.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position with his good hand, and breathed deeply to keep the static at bay.

"What the hell are you doing?" Gruff yelled.

"Ju... i-in... uhb," he forced out.

"What?"

"Ju... ju... oh, e-uh ine."

"Stay where you fu..." Gruff yelled. Then he cut short, froze and cocked his head. Sherlock strained to pick up what Gruff was listening to, but all he could hear was his blood rushing around in his ears.

Then, to his surprise, Gruff wiped the gun thoroughly with his shirt, dropped it onto the ground and ran. Confusing, but a definite improvement on his chances of survival.

Right. Standing up too quickly would be a bad idea if he wanted to stay conscious. He crawled over to the gun on his knees, holding his injured hand to his chest, grabbed it and then moved over to Myra.

She was panting and sweating and looking at him feverishly. "They left me!" she hissed.

No point in attempting to reply, his incoherent grunting was no use to anybody and it bloody well hurt.

There was a lot of blood. She was barely putting pressure on her gunshot wound. It probably hurt too much when she did and she wasn't thinking clearly enough to realise it was more important to stop the bleeding than avoid the pain. He needed something to tie around it... ah, perfect.

He grabbed her scarf and started to unravel it with his good hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" she screeched, and started thrashing.

He rolled his eyes and gestured at her leg, then tried to tuck the scarf under her neck to get it free.

"Get off! Help! He's trying to kill me!"

"Ob id!" he ordered. "Ib eyeing do elb!"

"I apologised, alright! We were just children!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, and gestured to her leg in frustration. Ah! He had a brainwave. He would threaten her into staying still, then once he had the scarf off she would realise that he was trying to save her life and calm down. He picked up the gun and pointed it at her.

"Ay ill."

"Help! Help!" She screamed and screamed and he had never been so tempted to let somebody die.

"Stop, police!" shouted a familiar voice. Sergeant Donovan. Thank God. Maybe she could explain to this idiot about putting pressure on wounds.

He looked behind him for the kidnappers, then realised they hadn't returned. It was him she was shouting at.

Ah, he realised what this looked like. A woman makes a complaint about him, a woman who put him in hospital seventeen years ago; a woman therefore, who he has reason to hate. And here she is bleeding to death from a bullet wound, screaming and thrashing, while he points a gun at her. Damn.

"Put the gun down and your hands where I can see them."

He put the gun on the ground and raised his hands slowly. Donovan was over in a flash, standing behind him.

"Hands on your head."

"I... ib ob wad..."

"You are under arrest for the use of a deadly weapon. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Sherlock doubted that they would be using "I ib ob wad" in court. He did as he was told and moved his hands to the back of his head, wishing he could mention that one of them was broken. Donovan slapped a cuff on his left wrist, then brought both hands behind his back and cuffed them together. His right hand throbbed at the manhandling, and when she yanked him to his feet his vision blanked again and he staggered into her.

Startled, she reacted instinctively in self-defence and took his legs out from under him. This time, without his hands to break the fall, he did land on his face. He screamed as his dislocated jaw hit the ground. The pain was excruciating and shot through his head and down through his neck.

The spots returned and he stayed perfectly still, panting, hoping they would dissipate. His breaths were short and sharp; it felt as if his lungs had shrunk and his face was on fire. His eyes watered from the pain.

There were voices again. Lestrade and Donovan. Arguing. Explaining. Shouting for assistance. Requesting an ambulance.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was asking. "Are you alright?"

He realised the static in front of his eyes was now the light shining on the dark gravel under his face. Slight delirium, he noted, but not bad enough to stop him from noticing the delirium. He didn't attempt to answer, he wasn't sure he could spare the breath.

Lestrade knelt down and helped Sherlock to sit up. Sherlock could feel drool sliding down his chin. He attempted to look Lestrade in the eye, but it was difficult to focus and his head was swaying. Or felt like it was swaying. He couldn't be certain. Lestrade turned to Donovan and said: "Make that two ambulances, Sergeant. And remove those cuffs please. He's not going anywhere."

Donovan finished her phone call, silently unlocked Sherlock's cuffs, then knelt by Myra Jules and continued to administer first aid. The woman was still gibbering about how Sherlock had shot her and tried to strangle her for revenge.

If only someone would bloody strangle her.

"Sherlock, what happened?" asked Lestrade.

"I... ant... org," Sherlock forced out between breaths.

Lestrade studied his face. "Dislocated or fractured jaw," he said. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Sherlock presented his right hand for Lestrade's inspection. Lestrade cringed, and his eyes flicked towards Donovan briefly. Sherlock thought he saw irritation there, but the DI quickly masked it. He was too professional to make a judgment before he knew all the facts.

"Broken, I think. Can you move it?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, and a pain shot through his face. He drew the broken hand to it instinctively, but stopped himself short.

"Yes, probably broken. The ambulance will be here any minute. I'll get your statement when the doctors okay it. I know you're desperate to explain everything and believe me, I am desperate to hear it, but it can wait till then."

Sherlock knew that Lestrade meant it could wait at least until the doctors discharged him. At that point he would be locked up in a cell until this matter of his arrest was resolved.

"Can you hold yourself up?"

"Eb," Sherlock said, wincing, and moving his good hand to a better position on the ground.

Lestrade removed his hand from the younger man's shoulder, slowly, waiting to see that he wouldn't topple over before getting to his feet. Sherlock could tell by the stiffness of his movement that five minutes of kneeling had hurt the DI's right knee joint; so he was regaining his mental clarity, thank God. He despised sluggishness and confusion. He imagined it was like being the same as the rest of the population.

The police were investigating the scene, incompetently, photographing all sorts of irrelevant things. He watched them impatiently, desperately wanting to tell them what had happened. But he was a suspect, and if he seemed lively enough to cause trouble, they might cuff him again.

Besides which, sitting still seemed to calm the pain in his face from a sharp, nauseating stab to a dull, nauseating throb. He was aware that he was drooling and must look ridiculous, but he could not close his mouth. He refused to feel humiliated by this - it was a perfectly ordinary symptom for this injury and there was nothing he could do about it, apart from periodically wipe his chin with his sleeve, as delicately as he could manage.

He was not looking forward to the hospital. Either his jaw was dislocated, and it would have to be snapped back into place, or it was broken, and he could end up with it wired up shut for weeks. They would probably operate on his hand, then put it into a cast up to his wrist. He would not be able to play the violin for months, and his typing speed would be diminished.

On the upside, though, he was probably going to be treated to some excellent pain killers.

It seemed a long while before he heard the distant sirens grow closer. Then before he knew it, four ambulance staff were jogging down the stone steps with two stretchers.

Sherlock pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, slowly to avoid passing out again. This time, there were only a few spots in his vision.

Lestrade, knowing the consulting detective all too well, returned to his side. "You're okay to walk?"

"Eb," said Sherlock.

"Well, if it's all the same to you, I'll help. Don't want you suing the department for mistreatment."

Sherlock didn't bother to respond, but didn't shrug off Lestrade's supportive hand on his back. It was barely a help as there was nothing wrong with his legs; all he needed was somebody to be close enough to catch him if the spots returned.

The ambulance crew assisted him into the vehicle and insisted that he lie down and let them strap him onto the bed. Lestrade climbed in afterwards and sat opposite. For a moment, Sherlock thought the detective was there for moral support, then he remembered that he was still under arrest and required a police escort.

Still, he had to admit - only to himself, of course - that he was glad Lestrade was doing the job himself. It would have been more practical for the Detective Inspector to delegate a babysitting job to one of his minions, all of whom would have offered Sherlock disdain or pity. At least Lestrade had some respect for him. Even when he was drooling.


	5. Chapter 5

Donovan was waiting by the police car with handcuffs.

"Lestrade..." said Sherlock, pausing.

Lestrade put a hand on his arm and Sherlock flinched. "It's just procedure, Sherlock. The Superintendent has his eye on us, we have to go by the book. You've been signed off by the hospital, so now you have to give an official statement. Then we can release you."

"Or set a court date," Sergeant Donovan said.

"I gave you a statement last night."

"Yes, and it was ridiculous," said Donovan.

"It needs to be by the book," said Lestrade. "Not a barely legible scrawl written while you were concussed and drugged."

"This is a waste of time," Sherlock complained. "You'll never solve this case before your holiday. Your wife will be livid."

"As I said, it's procedure. What can you do?"

What could he do?

Option one: escape. Outcome: capture and arrest, this time with a real charge for resisting the first arrest. Alternative outcome: a life on the run (boring).

Option two: go along with this ridiculous charade. Outcome: get it over and done with as quickly as possible and get back on the case. Alternative outcome: jail (unlikely).

Sherlock offered his wrists to Sergeant Donovan. "Broken in four places. Try to be careful this time," he sneered.

She snapped the cuffs on gently and opened the police car door for him, guarding his head with a hand as he lowered himself inside. She and Lestrade got in the front and drove to the station in stony silence.

Sherlock forced his expression from angry to impassive. It wasn't the first time he had been in handcuffs in the back of a police car. The first time had been for possession and he had promised himself that it would not happen again. It felt humiliating and degrading, and then he made matters worse by despising himself for indulging in such illogical, ridiculous emotions. He shouldn't care what people thought - at the most, he should be annoyed at the inconvenience.

It was more than that, though. It wasn't that he could be mistaken for a criminal by any observers. It was that if he was a criminal, he would not be so stupid as to get caught by the police. If he was a criminal, he would be unstoppable. Lucky for London that he had chosen the other side of the law.

At least his current arrest would, retrospectively, prove the police's stupidity. In the meantime, he would have to suffer walking through the police station, covered in cuts and bruises, clothes filthy and half wrecked and to top it all off, in handcuffs, lead meekly by Sergeant Donovan.

They all hated him. How they would love it, whether they believed he was guilty or not. Either he was guilty and they had been right about him all along, or he wasn't guilty, and it was hilarious. Sherlock Holmes, brought down a peg or two.

Well, he refused to care what those idiots thought. Sod them.

His resolve not to care was wavering by the time they reached Scotland Yard. He put on a wooden expression and promised himself that his face would stay that way. He would not betray his discomfort, he would not cause a fuss. He would do this with as much dignity as he could muster by remaining silent and impassive.

Donovan opened the door, and he stepped out, heart racing.

They hadn't even reached the building before someone spotted them. Sergeant Cole whistled. "About time we put you in a pair of those," he chuckled, holding the door open for them. "What's he done?"

"He's a suspect in a shooting," Donovan said.

"Shame on you, Holmes."

"That's enough, Cole," Lestrade said. "Get back to work."

"I can fight my own battles, Lestrade," muttered Sherlock ungratefully.

As they walked into the bullpen, he hardened his mask and cursed his bloody racing pulse. But dammit, he was attached to his image as an infallible genius. And right now, he didn't look like an infallible genius at all. He looked like somebody who'd been outsmarted, beaten up and arrested.

He avoided eye contact as they walked past the desks of gaping police officers, but kept his head upright. 

Then they saw Anderson. Dammit. Why did they have to run into Anderson?

Anderson, on the other hand, was obviously happy about seeing him, for a change.

"What the hell happened to your face?" he said.

"Steel toe-capped boots," said Sherlock, shortly. He was so on-edge and exhausted that he couldn't even think of a witty response. He settled for thinking childishly to himself: 'What happened to yours?'

"I can sympathise. Five minutes of conversation with you and that's what we all want to do."

Sherlock smiled sarcastically. It hurt his jaw.

"Why the cuffs?" he asked Donovan.

"He's a suspect in a shooting," repeated Donovan.

"I knew it. You bloody psychopath, Holmes. About time you got what you deserve."

Sherlock just stared at him, defiantly.

"Leave it, Anderson," Lestrade said, tugging at his arm. "Come on, let's get this over with."

They finally reached the door of the interview room. Sherlock sighed with relief, letting out the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

"Inspector!" Cole was shouting from across the office. "Donovan! They've found the Jules guys. Anderson, get Gomez. Tell her it's a double."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I need to see that crime scene."

"What?" spat Donovan. "You're delusional!"

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Cole and back again, and with a sinking feeling Sherlock realised what was about to happen.

"I'll be back as quickly as I can," Lestrade said, apologetically

Cole jogged over, enthusiastic. "I'll look after your prisoner till you get back."

Lestrade nodded and shot out of the office, shouting instructions to various people about protective custody for Myra Jules, and who was to go where and get what.

"I can give my statement to..." Sherlock started.

"He waits for me," Donovan told Cole, before she jogged after Lestrade.

Cole put a hand on Sherlock's back. "Now, where shall we put you?" he said with a grin.

The cell wasn't so bad. It was twenty-first century Britain after all, and a combination of human rights laws and compensation culture meant that prisoners were treated fairly well and weren't left to starve or wet themselves.

But it was still a cell. And there was a crime scene out there, and a case to solve, and people who wanted him dead, and bloody hell, his jaw and his hand and his stomach hurt like hell. The stabbing sensations in his hand were bad enough, but the sharp, sickening ache in his face was something else and his whole head felt enormous.

He could probably persuade somebody to go and collect his painkiller prescription, but he was feeling vulnerable enough without lowering himself to asking a police officer for help.

Mycroft no doubt knew where he was, but would rather Sherlock was temporarily out of the picture and unable to discover who his colleague, the mysterious 'Boss' was, until the trail ran cold.

Why was Mycroft determined to thwart The Boss's plan but protect his identity? A power play? Show The Boss who was really boss?

Or was The Boss a friend of his? Perhaps Mycroft really had been after Damian and had only later realized that his friend was involved in the plot, after which he tried to backtrack. And by 'friend', of course, Sherlock meant an acquaintance for whom Mycroft had further use.

Either scenario was as likely as the other. Only a few things were certain:

One: The Boss worked for the government and was known to both Mycroft and Jules.

Two: The Boss had ordered Damian and Leonard Jules dead.

Three: He and Myra were probably next.

No doubt The Boss, with the same insider knowledge as Mycroft, knew that Sherlock was in the cells of Scotland Yard. But if he hadn't attempted anything at the hospital, he probably wouldn't attempt anything here. It wasn't the best place to tie up your loose ends.

He would be ready.

The flat was the most obvious place to get to him. It would be easy to climb up to the balcony, break in through the window, and wait for him to return. It could be weeks before anyone found his body, he reflected morbidly. By that time, the killers would be long gone.

On the other hand, they might assume he would be under surveillance at home. If The Boss was clever, which was fairly likely considering his success so far, then he would have him tailed and jumped or poisoned when he least expected it.

Well, he would be disappointed, because Sherlock would always be expecting it. Until the killers were all caught, he would eat and drink only from sealed packets he'd bought from shops he'd never shopped in before. He would be watching everyone around him, waiting for someone to strike and he would be ready to defend himself.

If only he could figure out where to get his next clue from.

He could tell where Conscience and Gruff had been, but that didn't necessarily tell him where they would go next. They would change their routines to avoid his detection.

Suddenly, he realised something. Gruff had wiped his fingerprints from the gun. A sensible precaution of course. But was it worth delaying his escape? Possibly. Possibly. More so, of course, if he had a record.

"Excuse me!" he shouted for the guard. "Can you get me some mug shots to look through? It's to help with Lestrade's double-murder case."

"I'll ask," the guard conceded. He came back ten minutes later with a pile of photo albums.

"Isn't it about time this went electronic?" Sherlock asked.

The guard shrugged.

It was a mind-numbingly tedious task, but it was as close as he could get to investigation at this point. He sat down, sighed, and opened the first book.

He was almost relieved when he was interrupted by Donovan several hours later: "Time for your statement, freak."

Shame he hadn't passed out, he thought darkly, it would have been embarrassing for Donovan to have to call 999 because she'd left her concussed prisoner unsupervised in a cell and let him fall into a coma.

He glanced at the pile of books. Useless.

She opened the door and put the cuffs back on him.

"Enjoy it Sergeant, it will be the last time you do it."

"I doubt that," she said.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Lestrade was waiting in the interview room.

"Sorry about that, Sherlock," he said.

"What happened?"

"Later," he said. "First let's get this statement done."

Donovan switched on the digital recorder and recited the date, time, and the names and ranks of herself and Lestrade. She followed with: "Interview with Sherlock Holmes, arrested on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon. Tell us what happened Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock explained that he had discovered the time and place of the Jules' meeting with the kidnappers.

"How?" asked Donovan.

"A... tip-off," he said, only half lying.

"From who?"

"Irrelevant to the charge. The important thing is that I arrived at the school and waited. Shortly afterwards, at about 7pm, two men, one of them armed, arrived with Leonard Jules. The boy was bound and gagged. One of the men was texting, then he said to his partner: 'The Boss reckons the cops don't know shit about it all.'"

Donovan and Lestrade shared a concerned look.

"Can you describe the men?"

He did so.

"Next, Damian and Myra Jules arrived with a holdall, presumably containing the ransom money. I revealed myself and showed them the video of the school's CCTV footage on my phone. I told them I had emailed it to Detective Inspector Lestrade and the game was over. One of the men took my phone after that."

"What's on the CCTV footage?" asked Donovan.

"You haven't watched it?" he asked them.

"The file was huge," Lestrade explained, sounding embarrassed. "I was out of the office and my phone wouldn't download it. I saw the name of it: and decided to drop by with Sergeant Donovan."

"Perhaps you should invest in a new phone, Inspector," Sherlock said. "The video contains CCTV footage showing Samuel Rowland and Leonard Jules raping Megan Kellar in the school yard on New Year's Eve."

"There was no file," said Donovan.

"Damian used his position to make it disappear. He and Myra wanted to punish Leonard and teach him a lesson, but they didn't want him to go to prison, so they had him kidnapped to scare him and had Samuel and Megan murdered to keep them quiet."

"That's insane," said Donovan.

"Their motives were to protect Leonard and teach him right from wrong. The same as any other parents. But yes, their methods were extreme, perhaps insane," Sherlock said.

Donovan bit her lip, clearly to stop herself from responding with an obvious insult about sanity. Not on the record.

"As I suspected, Leonard Jules had his week's supply of insulin on him, given to the hired kidnappers by his parents. However, it soon became apparent that the kidnappers had turned the tables on Damian and Myra Jules, and were now genuinely holding the boy for a ransom.

To cut a long story short, now that I had exposed them, the kidnappers began discussing exactly which of us they would need to kill to keep themselves out of prison. Myra handed them the bag of money and I took the moment of distraction to tackle the man with the gun. He was startled and a shot fired.

I managed to wrestle the gun from him, but I dropped it when his partner grabbed me from behind in a choke hold. He held me while the first man punched me in the stomach. I almost lost consciousness from the lack of oxygen and they took that as an opportunity to regain the gun that had been dropped, kick me in the jaw several times and crush my hand.

I tried to observe what happened next, but I... I blacked out and when I woke up Damian and Leonard Jules and one of the kidnappers had left. I assume that..."

"Just the facts," Donovan reminded him.

"Myra was lying on the ground, bleeding from her leg. I realised she must have caught the stray bullet that had been fired. The other kidnapper still had a gun on us, but then he heard something, wiped it down with his shirt and then ran.

I couldn't hear anything myself, my ears were ringing. I went over to the gun and picked it up, then moved over to Myra. She was hysterical, saying that "they" had left her. She was barely applying pressure to the wound and it was bleeding profusely.

I thought her scarf would make a good tourniquet and tried to remove it from her person. She started screaming at me and struggling. I was unable to explain my intentions, because of my dislocated jaw, and so I decided to point the gun at her to encourage her cooperation.

At that moment, I heard Sergeant Donovan shouting for me to put down the gun. I did so and she arrested me."

"Is that everything?" Donovan asked.

"Yes."

She announced that the interview had concluded and switched off the tape.

"That was unbelievable," Donovan said, "Literally."

"Oh come on, Sergeant." Lestrade said.

"I can't believe this."

"You know that the powder test came back negative, Sergeant," Lestrade said.

"So he found a way to avoid the residue," she said. "I wouldn't put it past him, he's so clever after all."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sergeant, if I really wanted to kill somebody, do you really think I would be so obvious?"

"Sherlock..." Lestrade warned.

Donovan was livid. "A woman bullies you at school. She makes a complaint about you. You have an obvious motive. We find her shot, bleeding and screaming for help, while you hold her at gunpoint. An unregistered gun that has only your fingerprints on it. Yet, you are going to get away with it.

Yes, I think that sounds like you. What better way to prove how clever you are than by making it just obvious enough that we know you did it, but with a story good enough that you get away with it?"

"Then who did this?" He indicated his injuries.

"I believe the rest of it, I'm not an idiot. I know Myra Jules didn't do that to you, and that whoever did has now killed Damian and Leonard. We found the insulin at the scene. I just know that in the confusion, you took an opportunity to shoot her and when it didn't kill her, you tried to finish the job. I mean, why didn't you just use your own scarf as a tourniquet?"

"It's my favourite," deadpanned Sherlock.

"Enough," said Lestrade. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Sherlock, you're free to go. The police won't be pressing charges, so it will only go to court if Myra Jules does, in which case I will be happy to back you in court."

Donovan huffed and stormed out, leaving them to it. Lestrade leaned over and removed Sherlock's handcuffs.

"Cigarette?" Sherlock asked.

"You look ready to drop."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "With three killers on the loose?"

Lestrade grinned despite himself and they walked out to the shelter. Thankfully, it was empty and quiet, aside from the rain drumming against the plastic roof.

"Guess what I'm going to say?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm a genius, not a mind reader."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about the changed meeting time?"

"And have you slowing me down?"

Lestrade snorted, looking him up and down dubiously.

"Ok, fine." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I thought you already knew."

"But I told you the meeting was the next day. Today. Tonight."

"I knew you and Donovan didn't want me to show up. I thought you were lying about the time to put me off."

Lestrade took this in, and then chuckled.

"Yes, very funny, Lestrade. I admit that even I am fallible. Occasionally - very occasionally - I do make a slight miscalculation."

"Slight miscalculation?"

"Yes, slight. The consequences were dramatic, but the error was slight. Drop it."

Lestrade sighed, deeply.

"Oh, what now?" Sherlock complained.

"What? I haven't said anything."

"Yes, but you're about to say something extremely irritating and dull."

"Yes, I suppose I am." Another sigh. "Sherlock, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep going off on your own. Look what's happened..."

"I'm fine."

"Not just the injuries. Getting arrested. Having a complaint made against you. And yes, the injuries too. This is why I asked you not to go with Donovan to interrogate the Jules family, and why I didn't want you at the meeting with the kidnappers."

"You need me, Lestrade."

"I know I do, I don't deny it."

"Well, I won't point you in the right direction and then sit on the sidelines while your people bumble along messing everything up. How could that possibly retain my interest?"

"Then join the bloody force yourself..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"...Because if you don't stop this, we'll both be sitting on the sidelines. If you don't stop Sherlock, I... I won't be able to consult you any more. It's getting too risky, for both of us. You could get killed, and I could lose my job."

"I left you out of my statement," Sherlock said, curtly.

"I know. Thank you. But too many people know that I invited you to the initial crime scene, and that lead to... if I hadn't had my internet on, you'd be dead right now."

Sherlock didn't respond. They smoked in silence for a full minute.

"Sergeant Donovan..." Lestrade started.

"I was pointing a gun at a screaming woman with a gun-shot wound in her leg. One that I have reason to dislike. I understand Donovan's initial action, just not her idiotic perseverance."

"I know she aggravated your injuries..."

"It was dark. She's not very observant. I doubt she knew I'd broken my hand, and I couldn't talk to tell her. When I fell on her, she thought I was attacking, so she reacted. It's... fine."

"You left that out of your statement, too," Lestrade commented.

"The statement's purpose is to exonerate me and provide evidence against the criminals. If I had wanted to point out all the police's mistakes, I would have been stuck in that room all day."

Lestrade smiled.

"I'm angrier about her wasting time investigating Myra Jules's complaint against me. Had she looked into Megan Kellar's rape instead like I'd asked, the girl could still be alive."

Lestrade looked surprised.

"And if she wasn't so convinced I tried to strangle a woman with a scarf, I could have been at the scene today and the case could have already been solved."

That and her rubbing his face in it all. The woman seemed determined to convince the entire Yard that he was a freak and a psychopath.

"Any luck with the mug shots?"

"No." He took in the last few drags and stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. "I will see this through till the end Lestrade."

"Sherlock..."

"Think of your holiday. By one am we could have the kidnappers in custody."

"How do you know what time... never mind. Ok, I'll take you to the crime scene. But first you're going home to get showered and changed, I am not walking round with you dressed and smelling like that."

Sherlock sniffed and looked down at himself. "Agreed."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was confused for a moment when he woke up, and then it all came flooding back to him. His first coherent thought was that the loss of a whole night during such an important stage of the case was frustrating. Sleep was boring. Still, he had to admit he felt better for it.

He assessed his condition.

There was a drip attached to his left hand, pumping in antibiotics to reduce the risk of infection in his jaw. The bag was almost empty, so the course was nearly complete.

He remembered that his right hand was broken in four places. The cast covered all digits except the thumb. Annoying. And it ached.

Having his jaw snapped back into place hadn't been as painful as he had expected, due to the local anesthetic he had been given. It was still rather unpleasant, though, and the anesthetic had rendered him mute for a further few hours, as well as the firm bandage holding his jaw shut to reduce the risk of re-dislocation. His face felt rather unusual. It was disconcerting, but bearable.

There was also the concussion, but since he had been resting in bed and filled with pain killers, he hadn't felt confused or been blinded by static. Because he had passed out several times in the school yard, he was supposed to be supervised for 48 hours, although not necessarily by somebody with a medical qualification. As soon as he was ready to leave, he would pretend that there was somebody at home who would keep an eye on him.

Lestrade, being a mere mortal, had needed to catch at least a few hours sleep and so, at the foot of his bed, outside of the privacy curtain, sat Constable Johnson. She had been there all night.

Officially, she was there to prevent his escape, but Lestrade, having been given a written description of the kidnappers and the night's events by Sherlock, had assured him the constable was competent in a scuffle. As much as he doubted the woman's skills - she was only a constable after all - he had been fairly confident that even she would notice a professional killer trying to stab him in his sleep. More importantly, it was extremely unlikely that Conscience, Gruff or their boss would attack him in a public place when they could just wait until he was alone, unguarded and not surrounded by witnesses and cameras.

He didn't doubt that he would be seeing them again. He knew too much. The story of his life.

A nurse popped in through the curtain, gave him some more painkillers and noted it on his chart. By the time they had started to take effect, the doctor who had adjusted his jaw, Dr. Gordon had arrived.

The doctor unwrapped the bandages from around his face and asked him to try to count to ten.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten," said Sherlock.

"How did that feel?" she asked.

"Fine," said Sherlock.

"More details, please. Be honest."

Sherlock hesitated, but then admitted. "It hurt."

"Where?"

He indicated the joint, near his ear.

"How much, on a scale of one to ten, ten being unbearable, one being mild."

"Five," Sherlock said.

"Ok, I'm going to prescribe you some pain killers. How are the ones you've been having here?"

"Fine. Good. I would rather have some pain and be coherent."

"Ok, we'll stick with the current dosage for now. The jaw is still in place, so I'm not going to re-bandage it unless you want me to?"

"No," said Sherlock.

"You should be ok to talk and eat, just go steady, start with softer foods and rest your jaw if the pain becomes unbearable. For the next six weeks, you'll need to make sure you don't open your mouth too widely. It can be easy to slip up with this, so try to think about what you're doing."

"I always do."

"Good. A lot of patients don't think ahead, and suddenly find they've dislocated the joint again by shouting, or even just biting into a big sandwich. If you think you're about to yawn or sneeze, I recommend you hold your jaw in place with both hands and try to limit the impact.

You will always have an increased risk of dislocating it again, but the first six weeks are the worst. After this, you can start to increase the opening width gradually until you regain your usual range.

I want you to make an appointment with your GP for a week's time, so they can check on your progress, and of course see them again if there are any problems. I'll be seeing you in six weeks to remove the cast on your hand, so we can have another look at your jaw then. Any questions?"

"Just one: when will I be discharged?"

"When this course of antibiotics has finished in two hours. You need to stay with somebody for... another thirty-six hours after that because of the concussion. If you fall asleep, they will need to partially wake you every couple of hours, and if you can't be stirred, they will need to call us. Is there someone who can do that?"

"I'm sure the police will keep an eye on me," he said wryly, indicating Constable Johnson. "And if they see sense and release me, there are... people at home."

It wasn't a lie. There were people. They wouldn't be taking care of him, of course, but there was no way he was staying in hospital for thirty-six hours with four suspects on the loose, and he didn't sleep during cases anyway. The previous night was an exception - his body had betrayed him.

"Good. Anything else?" she asked.

"No, thank you. That was very thorough."

She offered to open the curtains, and he reluctantly accepted. He would prefer privacy, but it wasn't practical to have his range of vision restricted to just the vicinity of his bed.

When the curtains were whipped across, the doctor left and Constable Johnson looked over at him briefly. "Good morning," she said.

"Any updates on the case?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not involved in the case," she said, "Just the guarding."

"Could I borrow your phone? The kidnappers stole mine."

"Er, no. You're under arrest."

"Text Lestrade for me then," Sherlock told her.

"The Detective Inspector will be here when you're released."

"The kidnappers will be escaping..."

"I'm sure Inspector Lestrade is onto that."

"Fine," said Sherlock, irritably.

So two hours. Two boring hours till his arrest resumed.

Hmm, he needed the toilet. That should take up at least ten minutes, although he didn't expect it to be particularly interesting, apart from him learning how capable he was of standing up without passing out.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up without difficulty. So, the worst of the concussion had already passed. That was good. He slipped his shoes on, although they weren't a good match for the hospital gown, it was better than walking barefoot in a public toilet.

"Where are you going?" the Constable asked.

"The loo," he said. "I assume that's allowed."

"I'll wait outside."

He didn't bother to protest, but began to awkwardly wheel his drip bag alongside him and make his way to the hallway. He followed the signs to the men's loos, did his business and then spent a few minutes examining his face in the mirror. He looked appalling. Bruised, cut, unkempt and exhausted. What with the injuries and the bags under his eyes, a quarter of his skin was red or purple. He pointlessly straightened his hair a little, then returned to the bed.

One hour and forty-five minutes till discharge.

His jaw was starting to ache. Perhaps he should have asked for a higher dose after all.

He wheeled the drip bag back out into the hall, and found the nurse's station. Johnson followed him silently. The nurse who had marked his chart earlier came over and smiled, "Are you okay, Mr. Holmes?"

"Can I have some more painkillers?"

"I'll have to check your chart."

She walked back to his bed with him.

"Now, what can I take?" he asked.

She studied the chart, running her finger along the relevant parts. "Well, you're not due another dose yet. I could ask the doctor to increase your dosage, but that will also increase your drowsiness."

"Oh, never mind," he griped.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps if you just rest for a while, avoid talking, it will start to feel better. Breakfast will be served shortly too, that might distract you."

"Ok, thank you," Sherlock said shortly, hoping to get rid of her now she had served her purpose. She smiled and left him.

One hour and thirty minutes till discharge.

Ok, so perhaps he could work on the case mentally while he waited. Run things over in his mind. See if Conscience and Gruff had said anything useful that he hadn't picked up on at the time. He had noticed everything, but he may not have deduced everything. Not yet. Unfortunately, even he was prone to being distracted during life-threatening situations.

He ran back over everything he could remember them saying. One thing stuck out in his mind. "The boss reckons the cops don't know shit about it all."

So The Boss, whoever he was, and a 'he' was statistically more likely, had insider knowledge about the police investigation. There was only one person that he could think of who always seemed to know what the police were up to. Mycroft. Only yesterday, Mycroft had casually commented on Donovan not being able to find the Megan Kellar case file after she had released Sherlock from the station.

For a moment he considered the possibility that Mycroft was The Boss. But no, that was ridiculous. Mycroft wouldn't have given the disc to him if he was behind the whole thing. The only mystery surrounding Mycroft's involvement was why he had bothered to get involved at all.

The Boss was somebody like Mycroft, perhaps. Somebody in the government.

Yes, that made sense. Damian Jules hadn't hired a random criminal to do the kidnapping. That would have been too risky for his son. No, he had asked a contact in the government. Someone he trusted. Someone whose job it was to do the others' dirty work, behind closed doors whilst the Jack Bauer law was still just an idea. Someone who had used the situation to make a power play and show Damian Jules who was boss.

One hour and twenty minutes till discharge.

I'm in hospital. Visit me, you miserable git. SH

Oh, don't be so dramatic. You're fine. MH

But lonely and in pain. SH

Don't be ridiculous. MH

Just visit. Are you going to make me beg? SH

Yes, please. MH

No, then. I don't want to see you that much. SH

Shut up. I'll be there soon. MH

Sherlock deleted the texts.

"Hey!" said Johnson. "Is that my... how did you?"

Sherlock handed the phone back.

"Don't do that again," the Constable said, self-consciously popping the phone back into her trousers. After a moment, she removed it and put it into an inside jacket pocket.

"Do you have any cigarettes?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

"I don't suppose you want to pop to the shop?"

She just shot him a look.

Sherlock smirked. One hour and fifteen minutes until discharge.

Breakfast was served a few minutes later. He picked at it, but didn't ingest anything but the tea. One hour till discharge.

Then he had a brain wave.

He got out of bed again, but hesitated when he remembered what he was wearing.

Completely pointless piece of clothing a hospital gown. There was absolutely no reason that he could fathom that the doctors would need that much access to his naked body at short notice. However, his clothes were in a state and as considerate as Lestrade was, he was not the sort to think of delivering slippers and pyjamas to another man. Besides which, the drip would make it impossible to pull on a sleeve, and the cast wouldn't exactly help either. Oh well. The gown, plus his ripped and filthy trousers and ruined shoes would have to do.

Pulling on his trousers was extremely time consuming with two hindered hands and it took him ten minutes. He found himself ridiculously relieved that Johnson didn't offer to help.

At least he had stopped drooling, he supposed.

He walked back into the corridor and Johnson followed. "What now?"

"Just going to visit somebody. Problem?"

"If it's Myra Jules, yes."

"It's not Myra Jules."

"Then I suppose it's ok."

They caught the lift and he awkwardly maneuvered his drip into it, and out again when they reached the correct floor. Johnson held open the door for him and he shuffled through.

Molly dropped her clip board in shock when she saw him. "Oh my God, Sherlock. Are you alright?" she squeaked, taking in his obvious injuries.

"What? Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"What happened?"

"I picked a fight with Megan Kellar's killers."

"Who's Megan Kellar? Are you supposed to be down here? You look like you should be in bed... A hospital bed, I mean."

"I'll be wherever I like. Besides, I have an escort to keep me out of trouble."

Johnson nodded at Molly.

"Oh, hello," said Molly. "Why do you have an escort?"

"Megan Kellar," said Sherlock, "Is a cadaver. She should have come in for autopsy yesterday."

"Oh, ok. Jack was on," said Molly. "He's a locum. I'll check." She scanned a list and then indicated one of the tables. "He's started, but the order didn't come in till quite late so it's not been finished yet. Do you want to have a look?" She lifted the cover from Megan's body, and muttered, "Poor girl."

Sherlock ran his eyes over her, looking for a needle point. He couldn't see one, nor any signs of struggle or injury. Probably an ingested poison then, or perhaps inhaled. He sniffed her face and mouth, examined her tongue, but found nothing.

"Cause of death?" he asked.

She looked at the locum's notes. "A fit."

"She was epileptic?"

"Yes, that's what they thought it was at first. But it wasn't. If they hadn't called the autopsy, it would have gone down as natural."

"What do you think it was?"

"Well, the smell..." Molly started.

"Smell?"

"You can't smell the almonds?"

"Cyanide." Sherlock said. "And you can smell it?"

"Yes."

"Why can't I smell it?" he wondered out loud.

She hesitated. "Probably smoking has dulled your sense of smell. It does that."

Sherlock pursed his lips, irritated.

"Sorry, sorry," she babbled. "I'm sure your sense of smell is fine. Mine's just, I don't know, freakishly good or something. I don't know, the one job where you could do without your nose. Maybe I should take up smoking, myself." She laughed, nervously. "But no, not with all the cancerous tumours I've had to look at. No way. I mean, not that you're going to get..."

"I want to see a blood sample."

"Ok, take one, if you like. The toxicology hasn't been done yet."

Sherlock lifted his broken hand pointedly, and she frowned.

"Ok, I'll get it." She moved to get a syringe, and then Mycroft walked in.

Sherlock tutted loudly.

"Have you already forgotten that you invited me here?" Mycroft complained.

"What? Oh yes, so I did. Damian and Myra Jules didn't use just any criminal to kill Rowland and kidnap their son, they used one of Damian's contacts in the government. I want you to look into it and let me know who it is."

Mycroft just smiled.

"You already knew that," said Sherlock, accusingly. "You know who it is."

"Of course not," said Mycroft, glancing towards the Johnson and Molly Hooper. "But I'll certainly look into it for you."

"You utter arse," said Sherlock. "Get out."

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous. Maybe you need some more rest."

"Don't you dare. Get out, I need to work."

"I've only just got here."

"OUT!"

"When are you being discharged?" Mycroft asked.

"Goodbye Mycroft," said Sherlock.

Molly put the blood sample under the microscope for him and Sherlock leaned over to study it, pointedly ignoring his brother. The blood showed evidence of a drug, and he looked up the chemical structure of cyanide on the morgue's computer database.

Molly just stood there, wringing her hands, awkwardly until Mycroft left.

"Friend of yours?" she laughed, nervously. Sherlock ignored her.

A moment later, Lestrade arrived. Sherlock felt oddly relieved that he hadn't had to introduce the detective to his brother.

"Sherlock!" the DI chided. "What are you doing here? You haven't been discharged from hospital yet and you're under arrest. You shouldn't be working on the case."

"Don't trouble yourself Inspector, I am still in hospital," he indicated the drip, "I haven't left Constable Johnson's sight, and you know full well that neither of you can stop me from working on the case."

"You're under arrest, Sherlock?" Molly asked, concerned.

"Just a misunderstanding. I was holding a gun at the wrong time."

"He's to be discharged in fifteen minutes, sir," said Johnson.

"While we wait Lestrade, why don't you take a look at Megan Kellar and tell me if you can smell anything on her breath."

Despite his insistence that Sherlock shouldn't be investigating while he was under arrest, Lestrade's curiosity got the better of him and he approached Megan's body.

"Terrible," he muttered with a frown. "So young."

He leaned over, sniffed her face and wrinkled his nose.

"What am I supposed to smell?" he said.

"Almonds," said Sherlock.

"Cyanide?" said Lestrade.

"It would appear so."

"And you can smell it on her? Trust you to have an advanced sense of smell."

"Actually, it was Dr. Hooper. Apparently we smokers are deficient in that area."

Lestrade frowned. "Good nose then, Doctor. Was it backed up by the tox?"

Molly smiled, "Er, not yet, but Sherlock's been looking at the blood. Did you find anything?"

"Clearly drugged, but I'd need longer with the sample and the Detective Inspector is just itching to take me into custody. Five minutes," he looked up at his antibiotics and saw the bag was empty. "Just enough time for a cigarette. Lestrade?"

Lestrade sighed and nodded, "I think I'm going to need one for this."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was showered and changed within ten minutes of walking into the building. It would have been sooner if his painful jaw hadn't made cleaning his teeth such a challenge.

Then he was on the way to the door, slamming it on the cry of his landlord's "Mr. Holmes!" and slipping off into the night. Sherlock had absolutely no intention of turning back to find out what that insufferable little man had had to say.

Although he was reluctant to use any more time on himself with a case waiting, he was certain that overall time would be saved if he could lessen the pain in his face and hand. Less pain meant increased clarity. Therefore he had decided to collect his painkiller prescription before meeting Lestrade at the crime scene.

Because of the one-way systems and traffic, taking a taxi instead of walking would only save two minutes of journey, and finding said cab could take more than two minutes.

He walked quickly down Montague St. towards High Holborn, watching carefully for any potential attackers. It would not necessarily be Conscience and Gruff, they would be too easily recognised. But there was no one else either. No suspicious body language or evidence of tailing. Either he was being left alone, or his pursuers were extremely professional.

Irritably, he wondered whether they had been called off by Mycroft. Mycroft knew The Boss after all, so it was possible. He had mixed feelings about this. Of course, it would be abominable to allow one's colleague to make an attempt on the life of your own brother. But Sherlock hated interference. If the supposed hit was called off, it did somewhat ruin the fun of thwarting it himself. Being saved by your older sibling was hardly as exciting and interesting as spotting and outing an assassin from across a crowded street.

There was a wait for his prescription, so he popped into an electronics shop a few doors down and bought himself a cheap, pay-as-you-go phone that came with £10 credit. It would do for now. He shoved it in his coat pocket - he could set it up in the cab on the way to the scene.

Back at the pharmacy, he pulled out his wallet and caught a glance of himself in the rounded security mirror. His bruises looked even worse in the bright pharmacy lights. He handed over his card, shielded the pin as he entered it, snatched the white paper bag and stalked back out onto the street.

Now that relief was near, his pains seemed to intensify. He checked the packet was the correct drug and dosage, popped two of the pills out one-handed and swallowed them, dry.

Right. Taxi.

He walked along the street waiting for one to pass. Ah, there... but it had gone by before he raised his arm. That was... odd.

He spotted another and tried again. Again, by the time he had reacted, the car had driven past. His reflexes were obviously suffering from the stresses of his injuries. How inconvenient.

He raised his good arm as he walked along. If it was already up when a cab drove past, it would be impossible to miss it.

It felt heavy though, his arm. In fact, so did his head. His vision seemed to fold back into itself and his head lolled back a little. The lights of London blurred. A wave of nausea rolled through him.

Was this the concussion, or... or, the pills...

A car pulled up beside him.

"You wanted a ride?" said a familiar voice from the window. Conscience.

The pills. Definitely the pills. How did they...?

"Changed my mind," said Sherlock.

He turned to run, but fell to his knees, head spinning. Oh dear. Bile rose in his throat. He held himself up with his good hand, cradling his cast around his burbling stomach.

Get up! he ordered himself. Standing felt like pushing up through quicksand. By the time he had managed it, Conscience was out of the vehicle at his side.

A couple of people glanced over, but none did anything yet, not sure if anything bad was happening. It was his experiment on Mr. Phillips all over again.

The words "Call 999," were on his lips, but as he opened his mouth, Conscience slapped him. Pain exploded in his face as the flat hand met his injured jaw.

"That's it, buddy," Conscience said amicably. "Stay conscious, stay with me."

His pleasant tone disguised his intention, and the few onlookers turned away, satisfied that if something bad was happening, it was being dealt with by a friendly enough bloke.

Conscience slapped him again lightly, and the static returned. Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes.

"Let's get you home, buddy," Conscience said, "I told you that shot was one too many."

Sherlock was almost a dead weight, head lolling as Conscience put an arm around him and yanked him to his feet.

With his last bit of energy, Sherlock swung at him and grabbed his throat with his good hand. Conscience just laughed and pulled it away easily.

"Now come on, mate, it's me, your pal Freddy. Remember? Man, are you wasted. Come on, in the car with you, let's get you home."

He pushed Sherlock into the back seat and slammed the door shut. One grab at the handle confirmed that there were child locks keeping him in, and there was a screen between him and the driver: Gruff.

Conclusion: escape currently impossible. He tried to make the most of the situation and at least shift to a position that wouldn't jar his jaw or hand.

So. Analysis. He was fading, but not falling unconscious. Possibly drugged with... possibly... it was probably...

He groaned. All he could think of was how sick he felt and how he wished the car wouldn't spin around and that, dammit, he still hadn't had his bloody painkillers and why hadn't he set his bloody phone up in the shop?

The lack of clarity was maddening. He tried to focus instead on his surroundings, hoping something concrete would be easier to focus on.

Conscience... Freddy... had got into the front passenger seat.

Gruff pulled the car out into a gap in the traffic.

They put the radio on and debated the sports as they drove.

Sherlock faked unconsciousness and tuned out a little, trying to keep track of their route and keeping an ear out for anything that stood out in their idle conversation.

"Is he...?" Gruff said.

Sherlock stayed deadly still.

There was a pause, presumably as Freddy looked around. "He's breathing," he said.

"Good, because the boss said..."

"Shh! No clues, remember. I remember what the boss said, I was there. I'm not a goldfish."

So, the boss knew about his deductive ability and had warned them to be careful. Never mind. Everybody underestimated it until they'd had first-hand experience, and even then they didn't believe it. He would get the clues he needed.

They wanted him alive, for some reason. What was it?

Lying still with his eyes closed was helping somewhat with thinking, but he still felt he wasn't up to his usual standard. They wanted to:

1\. Scare him off instead of kill him. Ineffective and therefore unlikely.

2\. Make him solve a puzzle for them before they killed him. More likely.

3\. Torture him before they killed him. More than likely.

His heart fluttered at the thought, and he inwardly chided himself for the weakness.

The thought of becoming a gruesome crime scene, though, and Lestrade and Donovan's pity. Maybe even Anderson's or Cole's. Eugh. He must escape.

He resisted the urge to check if he could move his limbs, but flexed his hand a little. Sluggish. No way with that level of dexterity he could open the plastic around his new phone, get the SIM card into it and text Lestrade in his pocket, unnoticed. Even just the text would have been a challenge, particularly with an unfamiliar keypad.

It would be best to keep it hidden and hope there would be another opportunity to set it up later when the drug wore off. Its presence was frustrating though, like a handcuff key placed just out of reach. Never again would he postpone having access to a mobile phone. Never. It could have changed everything.

He listened to the thugs' banter, silently, running through various escape scenarios in his mind as best he could. If only he knew what he had taken, and how long it would last, he could factor that into his plans.

When they eventually pulled up, he realised he had lost consciousness during the journey, and had no idea of the time or their position. It was silent outside, so that eliminated most of London. He knew they'd been heading North-East. For all he knew they had driven into Cambridgeshire. It was extremely disorientating. He was used to being able to pinpoint himself on an internal map. That aside though, his head was feeling a little clearer so the drug was wearing off already. Good news.

The two thugs got out of the car, and this time it was Gruff who pulled him out. Sherlock over-exaggerated his incapacity and sank to the ground.

Gruff leaned back into the car to grab something from the back seat.

Sherlock leapt up and slammed the door on the other man's back, trapping him momentarily, and reaching for his gun. It was trickier to release it from the holster one-handed, but he managed it and pointed it shakily between Gruff and Freddy, who was over the other side of the car.

"Unload your gun and then throw it over here," Sherlock ordered, slurring a little.

Freddy complied, slowly.

"Get out of the car."

Gruff moved out of it and shut the door.

"Go and stand by that building," Sherlock said, indicating the cottage they had brought him to.

They both walked over to it.

When they were close and their backs were still to him, Sherlock grabbed the keys from the front seat and got into the car, locking it from the inside. He managed to get the key in on the third try, started it up and hit the acceleration.

He sped across the grass of the cottage's large front garden, barely slowing down to turn out of the gate despite his one-handed grip.

-BANG BANG BANG-

Oh bugger. They had another gun and they'd shot the tires out; his escape plan was collapsing around him already.

The car spun out of control and he braked, attempting to steer the crash away from the ditch on the opposite side of the road. When the car spun to a stop, he didn't spare a moment to gather his wits but launched out of the door and onto the grass verge in a heap.

They didn't fire again - they were under orders to keep him alive for now and no doubt worried the crash would get them into trouble.

They would be running towards him. He had gained an advantage with his minute in the car. He didn't stop to look, but struggled to his feet and quickly scanned around for the best direction to take.

His only chance on the road was hitching a ride, and there wasn't a vehicle in sight. On one side of the tarmac was the house, surrounded by open fields. On his side, was a ditch and a wood. A no-brainer. He scrambled into the ditch, and tangles of weeds, roots, soft mud and stagnant water. His heavy limbs brought him down at the bottom and he landed on his hands and knees.

He yelped at the impact to his broken hand, but scrambled to his feet and managed to clamber up the other side and into the trees.

His pursuers weren't bothering to shout him. Professional. Amateurs would shout, "Come back here," and such the like, effectively advertising their position and achieving little else. Gruff and Freddy worked in silence, footsteps and rustling of clothing aside, probably communicating with hand signals.

He was only metres into the wood when he heard them reach the car. There was no chance of out-running them in his condition.

Sherlock found a hiding place in a cluster of large trees and quickly unpacked his new mobile phone, shoving the packaging into a hole in the bark.

He took off the back and the battery, pressed the phone against the tree with his cast and tried to push the small card into the slot with his good hand. Even his good hand was useless though, trembling and clumsy. His fingers felt thick.

The SIM fell into the damp leaves at his feet. Crap. Damn drugs.

He could hear his kidnappers light footsteps on the foliage. He slipped the phone into his pocket, then stood still, not even breathing.

A pair of torches lit up the wood and Sherlock pulled out the gun, silently.

As Gruff appeared around one side of the tree, Sherlock pointed the gun at him, only to feel the cold barrel of Freddy's at the back of his head a second later. He dropped the weapon into Gruff's waiting hand and hissed in frustration.

"Don't try that again," said Gruff.

It was a pointless order. He would try it again if he got a chance and they all knew it.

He forced his legs to wobble, and let out a convincing groan, sinking to his knees and burying his hands in the leaves.

Sherlock feigned confusion as he felt around for his SIM. A moment later, his fingers touched plastic and he pressed the tiny card into his palm. Hopefully it hadn't been damaged by the damp.

He staggered to his feet and managed to pop it into his pocket.

A hand gesture from Freddy, and he and Gruff both stepped back out of Sherlock's reach and aimed their guns at him. For a second, he thought he was about to be executed, then he realised they were assuring his cooperation by making sure he was within their range, whilst they were well out of his.

"To the cottage?" he mumbled.

Freddy answered with a twitch of his gun.

Sherlock walked ahead, hands in his pockets, fiddling with his phone as subtly as he could manage. He pushed the mobile against his leg and got the SIM between his fingers. Clumsily, he slipped again and again and had to retrieve it from the depths of his pocket. Damn it!

He had to stop when they reached the ditch. Freddy climbed across first so that he was covered with a gun from both sides while he crossed over himself. Then Gruff followed.

They resumed their walk and Sherlock resumed his task. Finally, after what felt like the fiftieth try, he got the SIM into the slot. He almost laughed with relief.

Next, he would need to put the battery back in on top of the SIM, but they had reached the cottage and he was ordered to open the door, necessitating a break from his mission.

They entered the house and Sherlock took in as much as he could. He had already noticed the pretentious 'Epping Manor' on the door. Upper- class. Good taste in a sense, but conventional, dull and eager to show culture and sophistication rather than individuality or personality. Little sign of being lived in. Impeccably tidy and clean, but musty. Probably used as a country getaway a couple of times a year - last time, six months ago, judging by the dust level.

No personal touches or work-related paraphernalia. This person came here to forget the city. High-power, high-stress job then and obviously well-paid. In the context of this case, likely a government official. But not The Boss's place, surely. Not unless they were planning on killing him after they had done whatever it was that they wanted to do and destroying his body and the evidence.

No. No, not The Boss. Mycroft! This was Myrcroft's country getaway. Sherlock had never seen it before, nor heard of the name, but he knew it existed and the décor was a dead giveaway. It had just taken him a moment to realise because it was Anthea, not his brother, who had chosen everything.

But Mycroft wouldn't do this to him. Would he?

No, no of course not. His brother might be a pratt, but he was nothing if not obsessed with keeping Sherlock safe, alive and, most importantly, scandal-free. A corpse showing up in Epping Manor would be terrible for Mycroft's career.

Thoughts of his potentially imminent death drew his thoughts to Lestrade.

Lestrade would have realised he was missing ages ago. Sherlock wondered if the DI would suspect a kidnapping or think that he had just gone off on his own to investigate. Hopefully Lestrade would realise that he would have at least visited the new crime scene before doing any consensual disappearing.

Not that Lestrade would be able to track him either way.

They went out of the cottage and into the back yard. Cemented over. Unsentimental. Definitely Mycroft.

Freddy motioned the shed with a grin and Sherlock frowned. Why the shed?

"Myra put you up to this, didn't she?" he realised. "But you double-crossed her, why is she…"

There was no time to delve into the theory before Freddy shoved him through the wooden. He stumbled, but stayed upright.

Gruff pulled a cord and a light came on. Bit smarter than the average shed, but otherwise full of the typical tools, buckets and bugs.

"Sit down against the shelves," ordered Gruff.

Sherlock hesitated, but with two guns trained on him, there was little to be done. He complied and moved towards the shelving unit. It was a metal one, screwed into the wooden wall. No sides or back, just four vertical metal bars and four horizontal metal sheets full of tools, paint tins, screws, oil, plant pots, and so on.

Gruff kept his gun on him at all times, while Freddy tied his wrists to the bars at either side of the unit using a plastic cord and some sort of clamp-device to hold the knots in place. He put the same around Sherlock's knees.

It wasn't the worst position he could be in, but it wasn't the best. He had his back to the unit, which wasn't particularly comfortable in itself. His legs were out in front of him, conjoined, and his arms were pinned out at either side with a limited range of movement.

It was possible that if they left him alone, he might be able to maneuver his coat pocket towards his good hand. Maybe. Perhaps knock the shelving unit and hope a pair of side-cutters fell into his hand whilst the heavier equipment avoided his head.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not about what we want," said Gruff.

"Okay," said Sherlock slowly, condescendingly. "What does Myra want?"

"To hurt you," said Freddy, with a grin.

Sherlock's stomach flipped. He wondered that he had ever nick-named the man, Conscience.

"How dull," said Sherlock, feigning boredom. "No requests? Messages? A little help with your marriage problems?"

Freddy growled and slapped him in the face with the flat of his hand, again. Sherlock's head reeled from the blow and the pain in his jaw intensified.

"Is that a 'no'?" Sherlock drawled, insolently.

"It's so nice to have a job you enjoy," Freddy said, running his fingers over his palm as if savouring the tingle of the slap.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. "My job is to observe and deduce. So I can tell you a little something about your wife. She..."

Freddy grabbed his chin and shoved a flannel into his mouth. Sherlock squeaked involuntarily at the pressure this put on his jaw. He remembered the doctor's orders to hold his face in place if he yawned or sneezed. She hadn't said what to do if he got kidnapped and gagged, but the same probably applied, so he held still to avoid re-dislocation.

Freddy took a roll of duct-tape from the sideboard and wrapped it around his mouth in a dark parody of the earlier bandaging. The tape was wound round five times and tightly, covering far more of his face than was necessary, from his chin to his nose.

Perhaps, Sherlock hoped, the tape would inadvertently have the same effect as the bandage had and keep his jaw still. It was the only upside he could put to this development. If there was one thing he hated more than pain and incarceration, it was being shut up. Now he had even lost the power he had to demoralise his opponents or engage them in a ruse that would take them from the shed so he could attempt to get to his phone.

He stared at the thugs defiantly.

"Get on with it," Gruff complained. "I'm sick of holding this bloody gun up."

But he didn't lower it. What he was concerned about right now with his prisoner in this position, Sherlock hadn't a clue.

"Gladly," spat Freddy.

He started with punches to the abdomen. Sherlock could barely double over in his position and when he started to, Freddy just grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back upright.

To his dismay, Sherlock realised he was hyperventilating. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths through his nose. 

One of the punches hit his jaw. A wave of static enveloped him and he started to fade. The pull of his head lolling snapped him back to consciousness and he groaned.

"Stop fannying around," Gruff complained. "Get him a bit bloodier, then we can get off."

"What's the rush?"

"This is a waste of time."

"What's the matter, lost the stomach for this now you're a posh git?" he spat, mockingly.

"Shut up!" ordered Gruff, eyes flitting to their victim. "Here, I'll do it."

Sherlock was relieved by the swap and Gruff's desire to be 'efficient'. He just hoped 'efficient' didn't mean less beating, more death.

Gruff ripped open his captive's shirt, and pulled a knife from his pocket. Before Sherlock had time to think or struggle, the man cut into his chest. More lightly than he could have done; just deeply enough to draw blood. He quickly added further cuts to his upper arms.

Sherlock retreated further into his mind and started creating and solving equations in his head to distract himself. At least the drugs were wearing off - his mental capacity was almost back to normal.

"You pansy," said Freddy, realising his partner's main aim was the aesthetics.

"Cigarette burns," said Gruff, matter of factly.

"Right," remembered Freddy, "I'll do this bit."

"Then we're off," said Gruff.

"Fine."

Freddy lit a cigarette and blew a mouthful of smoke into Sherlock's face. Sherlock inhaled it. It helped with the nausea somewhat.

His captor smoked the whole cigarette, planting burns on his chest and legs in-between drags, relighting when necessary and exhaling into Sherlock's face with every draw.

Sherlock tried to focus on his sums, but his head was rolling and his brain was filled with bright... something... and noise. Noise.

It was a while before his head rush ended and he realised there was silence and stillness again. He opened his eyes and saw that the pair had left, shutting him in the shed and turning the lights off. There hadn't been a light in the first shed, he recalled.

Suddenly he felt very thirsty.

He held his breath for as long as he could manage, until he was satisfied that it was silent enough to prove he was alone.

He wasn't sure his arm would pull close enough to his coat pocket.

He used his good hand to scrunch up the sleeve of his coat, drawing the pocket slightly closer, slightly closer... yes. Yes! The edge of his coat was almost in reach.

He could just touch it with his fingertips. He pulled it along the floor until he could get a firmer grip, then pulled up the material until the pocket was within his grasp.

Yes!

Hand in pocket and steadier without the drugs in his system, he quickly reattached the battery then pulled the phone out of the coat and switched it on. It rang out with a jingle as it loaded up and he glanced around sharply. Nothing. They really had gone.

He quickly figured out the buttons, there were only a few main systems with phones and he knew them all. He hesitated.

The thought of being found in his current state appalled him. There was nobody, absolutely nobody, who he felt comfortable about texting in this situation.

The last person he would ever want help from was his brother, Mycroft, after he had refused to identify the Boss and helped get him into this bloody mess.

Many people he knew would find some perverse satisfaction in seeing him this way, he was sure of it. The rest would pity him. Either way, eugh.

Not that he cared about their opinions.

The only person he could really text was Lestrade. But with Lestrade there would be Donovan and Anderson and others.

Then his moment of doubt was over. It was either be found like this alive, or like this dead in a month or a year, and much as he disliked humiliation, it was preferable to death. He entered Lestrade's number from memory.

Epping Manor - SH

Quickly. There's a lot of blood.

Come alone.

He hesitated, swallowed his pride, then texted again.

Actually, I suppose you had better bring back-up. I'm rather incapacitated right now and not certain they've really gone.

They being the killers, of course.

The phone beeped loudly.

On the way - GL

Succinct. Nice. Sherlock fiddled with the phone and switched it to silent.

He would be gratified if he could improve his situation before Lestrade came to his rescue. There were scissors were on the floor nearby. Perhaps he could cut his bonds...

He tried to lean towards them... scraped a wound, and everything turned black.

"Sherlock? Jesus. Sherlock?"

He awoke to the sound of Lestrade coming through the shed door and raised his head, neck stiff. For a split-second, he imagined himself through the DI's eyes, lit by a single bulb in a shadowy makeshift torture chamber, strapped up, bloody, burnt, bruised and gagged. The man was going to have nightmares.

The Inspector quickly cut the plastic ties and Sherlock immediately moved his hand up to unravel the duct tape. He was beyond wincing as it ripped from his skin. He pulled out the flannel and spat onto the floor.

"Got a mint?" he asked.

Lestrade hesitated, startled, then laughed, tension broken. 

"I need the ambulance crew in the shed... And no more police, I've got it," he said into his phone. "Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell happened?"

After giving him a quick once over, Lestrade looked pointedly at his face, presumably avoiding his bloody and burnt bare chest out of some awkward sense of consideration. Sherlock wasn't sure whether to be grateful for the DI's discretion or even more embarrassed by the man's apparent insight into his pride.

Lestrade suddenly looked away from Sherlock altogether and muttered, "Bastards."

"I believe they wanted to send a message," Sherlock said.

"Undoubtedly," Lestrade agreed, looking to the shelf behind him. "Do not interfere again."

Sherlock turned round to see the message DO NOT INTERFERE AGAIN, written on a sheet of paper in black marker pen and pinned to the shelf above his head.

"A message to you?" Lestrade asked.

"Possibly. I don't know."

"You don't know," teased Lestrade.

"Not yet," said Sherlock, tersely.

"What did they say to you? Was it the two guys from the school yard?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I think we just picked them up trying to change a tyre."

Sherlock nodded, simultaneously pleased and disappointed. They weren't the main catch though, of course, that would be The Boss.

"They just said that Myra and The Boss wanted to hurt me. They seemed adamant there should be a lot of blood."

"Myra?" Lestrade choked. "Are you sure you're not delirious?"

Sherlock gave him a look.

"Wait. Wait," Sherlock said. "A lot of blood. Why a lot of blood? Something about the blood..."

"They're insane?"

"Wait! If the message was for me, pain would be sufficient. They wanted it to look painful too. Hence the blood. The message was for someone else."

"Jesus," said Lestrade.

"You already said that. Pull me up."

"No," said Lestrade.

"Yes!" ordered Sherlock.

"Sherlock, the ambulance crew will be here any minute. Sit still."

"Wait…. Wait… The message is for my brother. Yes, this is his house, the message is for him. Obvious!" He frowned. "Apparently torture throws me off my game. Temporarily."

Lestrade grimaced at the dark humour. "Okay, so what do they want him to stay out of?"

"I don't know," Sherlock lied. He wasn't about to admit that Mycroft had helped him with the case.

Mycroft had been instrumental in proving that Myra and Damian Jules had hired The Boss to kidnap their own son. They must be angry that Mycroft's involvement had ruined their plans. Yes, Damian and Leonard were dead, but Myra was implicated and the police knew that she was working with someone in the government.

"Wait. What time is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Er... about two am."

Sherlock frowned. "You've missed your flight."

"Yes, Sherlock, I've missed my flight."

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked pointedly at the floor until the medics arrived.

Lestrade moved to follow him into the ambulance, even though he wasn't under arrest this time.

"I'm not in the mood for conversation," said Sherlock.

"Even better," said Lestrade lightly, and strapped himself in.


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock got home from hospital with a few extra bandages and a pair of crutches, it was to find an eviction notice on his door. Something about unreasonable behaviour and it negating the need for the usual notice period. He ignored it, for now.

Inside his room, his experiments had been dumped messily onto the bed and ruined. He shoved them and the duvet aside violently, staining the floor with blood and goo and flopping onto the bare mattress. His leg twinged. His face hurt. His hand was numb. It was cold.

-Knock knock-

He held his breath. After a minute, a yellow envelope was pushed under the door. A leaving card from Emily from room 2, no doubt. He ignored that too.

And then it was dark for a while.

When he woke, he knew something was wrong. It took him four minutes to find the hidden camera. He crushed it under his shoe and ignored a call from Mycroft.

I was concerned. MH

DO NOT INTERFERE AGAIN. SH

Mycroft didn't reply, but Sherlock got a text from someone he did want to hear from.

You feeling better? It's about the case. GL

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was throwing open the door to Lestrade's office.

"Well?" he greeted.

"Nice to see you too," Lestrade quipped.

"Dispense with the small talk Lestrade. The case?"

Lestrade sighed. "I made those enquiries you suggested."

"And?"

Lestrade sighed. "It's all classified."

Sherlock looked excited. "I must have been on the right track then."

"Maybe," conceded Lestrade. "Everywhere I looked, classified. Now even the evidence for our case is classified. Everything from Sam Rowland's mobile phone to the lab results to the photographs of your injuries."

Sherlock's heart was racing. "Then there was something there that implicated him. Maybe the number he used to ring the kidnappers. We need to get into the evidence locker and…"

"You're not hearing me, Sherlock. It's over. It's being investigated by MI5 now, I can't get any access to anything."

"You can't just drop this!" Sherlock protested.

"Then you tell me what I can do," Lestrade snapped.

Sherlock opened his mouth…

"Something other than breaking into the MI5's evidence locker," Lestrade interrupted. "How about you ask that brother of yours?"

Sherlock snorted derisively and looked away.

Lestrade thumped his desk in frustration. "I don't like this any more than you do, Sherlock. This guy, whoever he is, is a murderer and a kidnapper and he hurt you. But without evidence, there's nothing to investigate, and if you won't ask your brother then who can we take it to?"

"Your boss?" Sherlock suggested. "No, of course, she's already ordered you to stay off this."

"There's more," said Lestrade.

Sherlock looked him in the eye and frowned. "The kidnappers?"

"Dead. Found overdosed in their cells. Coroner ruled them suicides."

Sherlock cursed. "That's not all is it?"

"No," admitted Lestrade.

"Myra?"

"She's disappeared. She was released on bail somehow and now we can't find her."

"Maybe you can't find her."

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned. He heaved a huge sigh, then attempted to change the subject:

"Cigarette?"

"No thanks," said Sherlock said curtly.

"Been evicted haven't you?" Lestrade said.

He stared at Lestrade, deadpan.

The DI sighed. "The wife went on the holiday without me and won't be back for another week, so if you need..."

"Nope,” he said sharply.

Lestrade frowned. "Look. We need to talk. This isn't easy for me to say, but... I can't consult you any more. It's... it's too dangerous. What happened. I brought you in on the case. If I hadn't..."

Sherlock stared at him hard, turned on his heel and hobbled out of the office as quickly as he could manage.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him.

"Goodbye, Lestrade," Sherlock said firmly and continued to walk. "Text when you change your mind."

Lestrade swore, exasperated, but didn't follow.

On the way out, Sherlock saw Donovan and she sneered: "About time we cut you loose, freak."

"Oh please," Sherlock spat. "You'll all be begging me to return in no time. Next time it's a child, or a serial, or something else you can't handle. What am I saying? What can you handle? Unless it's a cut-and-dry domestic you're lost without me.

I give it a week. You all care so much you couldn't possibly take the risk that you could've caught the killer if only you'd got down on your hands and knees and begged me to help."

"You wish," Donovan laughed. "You think we need you? We don't. All you do is get in the way of the real police work."

"There's a big difference between so-called police work and actual detective work," Sherlock bit.

Donovan's eyes narrowed. "The next time I see you here, you'll be in cuffs again. Watch out, freak. I'm keeping my eye on you."

Sherlock looked up to see Anderson smirking. He shook his head irritably. Idiots, the lot of them.

"One week," he called as he slammed the door behind him.

As predicted, he found Myra. It hadn't been difficult. She was in a five-star hotel in Cairo using a rather obvious pseudonym. Obvious to him, anyway.

"For crying out loud, Sherlock," she tutted when she saw him.

"Myra," he said in way of greeting, as he joined her by the pool, sitting awkwardly on the edge of a sunbed with his bandaged leg outstretched in inappropriately-British black jeans. "What brings you here?"

She couldn't help but laugh at his pretence at normalcy. "What do you want?" she asked.

"You know what I want."

"An apology? Sorry about the injuries," she said smoothly, looking him over. "Those boys could be a bit over-enthusiastic sometimes."

"I didn't travel two thousand miles for an apology. Who..."

She shrugged. “I might as well tell you, as there’s nothing you can do with it. I only know him as M.”

"Government?"

She snorted, derisively. 

So he was wrong about that then. Damn, he hated when he was wrong. But M was definitely someone important. Someone who'd had dealings with Mycroft. Someone, as he’d thought earlier, for whom Mycroft had further use.

"Then what?" he demanded. 

"I don't know," she said. "We used intermediaries. He wanted rid of Damian and so did I. Different reasons of course."

Sherlock frowned, studying her face. Unfortunately, she seemed to be telling the truth. Damn it, did anyone aside from Mycroft know who The Boss was? Because there was no way he was giving his brother THAT satisfaction.

"Did he contact you first?" he asked, hoping she would reveal something accidentally.

"Yes. Through your two friends from the shed. Always through them."

Another dead end then. Literally.

"Why, Myra?" he asked, finally. "Money?"

It was her turn to shrug. "Money, power, the usual. You know me."

"I thought you said I didn't."

She smiled condescendingly.

"And what about him," Sherlock asked. "The Boss. What did he want?"

"How should I know? Money, power, the usual. Politics. Ask Mycroft, he seems to know everything." She laughed, cruelly. "Usually, he doesn't know till it's too late, of course." She smiled, cruelly. "As always."

Sherlock's face was impassive. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked up over his shoulder. He turned to see two armed guards looming over him, hands resting carefully on their weapons.

He snorted. What, did they think he was a terrorist just because he wasn't wearing shorts? Still, he had to admit that a disguise wouldn't have hurt his mission or his comfort level. Unfortunately, he didn't own any suitable holiday clothes and he hadn't had time to go shopping. His shirt was sticking to his chest, his face was dripping with sweat and he did not look like a local or a tourist.

"Is there a problem, madam?" the guard asked Myra.

Myra's expression had switched to vulnerable.

"This man is scaring me," she said, sounding innocent and uncertain, and nothing like the real Myra. "I don't think he's even a guest here."

The guards looked at each other worriedly.

"Come with us please, sir," one of them finally decided.

Sherlock just smirked. 

The local police he'd called earlier rushed in, aiming their guns at Myra. As always, he'd timed it just right.

She stumbled to her feet, drink smashing as she raised her hands. 

“Myra?” he drawled. “Apology accepted.”

With his broken leg he couldn't have the satisfaction of his usual cocky exit, so instead he laid back on her sunbed and watched, smug, as Myra was manhandled out of the hotel. The confusion of the security guards and the murderous looks Myra shot him made the moment all the sweeter.

But the mystery still remained: who the hell was M?

Back in London, he quickly found a place to rent. But it was a cordoned off area on a futon in someone's living room and the following day he was in a B&B, booking under a pseudonym. He had no illusions that it would deter his infuriating brother, but he had to at least make an effort to avoid his surveillance.

Six weeks of short stints in various expensive and dissatisfying accommodation situations later, and he was no closer to finding M; nor a decent, reasonably-priced flat; nor to forgiving Mycroft and Lestrade. And of course, he'd never had any intention of forgiving Donovan. He'd ignored all texts, especially the ones that revealed his dwindling bank balance.

Balance: £10,397 - HSBC

Where are you? MH

How's the flat hunt going? GL

Balance: £8084 - HSBC

Oh, found you. Really, it's like you're not even trying. MH

Hello? GL

Balance: £6428 - HSBC

I’m… regretful. About what happened. MH

Earth to Sherlock, am I talking to myself here? GL

Balance: £4351 - HSBC

There weren't any more leads to follow to M. Whatever clues there had been had been killed or erased. And so, Sherlock had reluctantly put the case on hold. Not closed, he told himself firmly, just on hold until he came up with a new idea.

Still, it nagged at him constantly. He itched to look up his old dealer, but dammit he didn't want to fail at that too and besides which, he couldn't afford it. If there was anything more outrageously priced than rent in London, it was hotels, B&Bs, guest houses and even hostels.

He hated to think about money. Yet it was hard not too when it was disappearing so quickly in return for just a bed, a roof and a few slices of toast and jam each morning.

That’s why he’d taught himself web design and created The Science of Deduction website, hoping that it would stimulate his finances and his stagnant mind.

He'd read up a little on marketing and discovered that, for some reason, he would need more than his CV to attract people's attention: his audience would want entertainment. He added a blog and created some puzzles, which he pretended were from an anonymous stalker to spice things up a little. Next, he moved onto an analysis of tobacco ash - spice for the more discerning customer.

He'd still planned to only work the interesting cases of course. Yet despite this intention, his few private cases were so dull that despite he couldn't be bothered to write them up, just noted their titles on the blog. 'The Major's Cat' for crying out loud. He needed murder, dammit, murder!

And then, just when he was on the verge of giving into his old addiction to give himself something to bloody do, he got it. A call from a PC Jane Downing about her husband's suspicious death. One phone conversation with her and he was certain that Lestrade was wrong to have closed the case.

Yes!

He knew it. He knew someone from the Yard would eventually give in ask for his help. Okay, so it wasn't Lestrade or Donovan, but it was a start. Thought they didn't need him, did they?

Ha!

He sent the DI his first text since Egypt, with a smile on his face and a flutter of excitement in his chest.

Accidental? WRONG. SH

He ignored the phone call, and the text that followed:

What? GL

Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes was back. He'd show them. If they wanted his help, they'd have to do things his way from now on or damn the consequences.

On the way to hail a cab, he spotted a familiar face that he hadn't seen for a while.

"Mrs. Hudson," he greeted, waving to get her attention.

"Oh, hello, dear! How are you?" she said, hugging him warmly.

"Fantastic, Mrs. Hudson. A man murdered, and the only suspect has a cast-iron alibi. Just on the way to the crime scene, now."

"Oh, Sherlock," she grimaced, but she patted his arm affectionately. "That's really not right."

He chuckled wryly.

"Now how are you?" he said, grasping her by the shoulders and eyeing her carefully. She watched his deduction process with curiosity, clearly wondering what he would be able to figure out this time.

"You're well... apart from your hip... although it's better than before, you've found something that works, finally. Alternative medicine."

She nodded: "Correct."

"Of course,” he scoffed. “Business is going okay, but... but your tenants have just moved out. Not a disagreement, they're eloping or buying. And you're about to advertise for a new..." He trailed off.

"How did you...?" she started. Then she laughed. "Oh, never mind, dear. I should be used to it by now."

He knew what the obvious direction of the conversation should be, but he hesitated. Who would want him as a tenant? Surely not even Mrs. Hudson was that crazy.

"I'm actually looking for a flat," he said firmly, disguising his caution.

Her reaction was immediate.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she said, delighted. "You must come and look at mine, it would be lovely to have you. I'll even do you a special rate."

Sherlock half-smiled.

"That would be... nice. Thank you."

"Now, I won't put out the ad until you've let me know. Here it is. 221B Baker street. You'll probably need a flat-mate so we could change the advert to one room, unless you know of anyone…" She pressed it into his hand. "Anyway, lovely to see you dear."

She hugged him again before continuing her walk. He slipped the advert into his pocket and grinned. Things were looking up. He had a case, he had a housekeeper, and he had a place to live. 

Now all he needed was a flatmate…

**Author's Note:**

> Please review, otherwise what's the point of me writing this stuff? :)


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